


The Queen of Hebrides

by SpaceSeaGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceSeaGirl/pseuds/SpaceSeaGirl
Summary: A female Harry Potter being beaten up by Dudley at school is more obviously horrific than a male Harry Potter being given the same treatment would be.  A teacher begins investigating and Child Protective Services is called.  A few years later, a Muggle family from London adopts a young girl named Isla Potter who was sent into the foster care system, and has to undo some of the damage done to her by years of canonical and mainly emotional abuse.Meanwhile, Arabella Figg writes many lovely, fake letters to Dumbledore and the wizarding world moves on in obliviousness, believing Isla is still with her aunt and uncle.  So when Hogwarts addresses her acceptance letter... it's a bit of a surprise.  And the girl who emerges isn't exactly who anyone was expecting.





	1. Chapter 1

Isla was good at running. This was important for keeping herself in relatively good health and condition. Running was vital - and not for reasons of exercise.

She sprinted across the playground and around a corner of her main primary school building, into an alley. There was a trash can there because the big side doors near it led into the school kitchens for lunchtime. She ran and jumped behind the big trash can, one of her favorite hiding spots, cornering herself safe from view and keeping very still. Tiny and quick, she disappeared behind the silver metal of the bin.

Her cousin Dudley and his gang of equally huge, bullying friends ran into the alley and stopped. They looked around lumberingly, slow and confused. “Where’d the little rat go…?” Dudley muttered.

Dudley’s one tiny, skinny friend was Piers Polkiss. Rather rat-like himself, he was the smart one with an eye for what other people didn’t see. In lieu of fighting, he instead held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley beat them up. Piers could have ended up a bully victim, but instead he’d done the strategic thing and joined the biggest bullies in school:

Isla Potter’s cousin Dudley Dursley and his gang of friends.

Piers suddenly pointed at the trash can. “Behind there!” Dudley and Malcolm kicked the trash can out of the way and found Isla crouched there. They ran forward - Isla threw out her hands on reflex - 

And the two boys were pushed off their feet by an invisible force and skidded backwards along the ground. It was as if two giant, invisible hands had shoved them away.

Isla froze, terrified. Dudley sat up, met her eye - and a slow, evil grin crossed his face. “Wait till Mum and Dad hear about this,” he said in a low voice, and Isla swallowed back her dread, tensing herself in preparation.

Because they both knew it: Isla would be in enough trouble as it was and she couldn’t afford to act out in any other way. There was no physical way Isla could have pushed off Dudley and Malcolm, but her ever-paranoid aunt and uncle wouldn’t see it that way. In their eyes, everything was her fault - especially if it was supposed to be impossible.

“GET HER!” Dudley suddenly shouted, and the boys charged. Piers grabbed Isla’s arms from around behind and Dudley immediately slugged her right across the face. Blood flew.

-

Elsie Stevemark, primary school teacher, was walking through the school cafeteria cleaning up after the children when she saw it happening outside the kitchen window. She straightened and sucked in a sharp breath. Dudley Dursley, already known as a frequent bully, was together with his gang of friends beating up one of Elsie’s little girls.

She stormed through the cafeteria and straight out the kitchen side doors. “Move! Let go of her!” she barked, waving her hands. The boys, seeing a teacher, immediately backed down, letting Isla go as she fell startled into the dirt on her bottom. Her eyes were round with startled surprise, what Elsie could see of them anyway.

Isla Potter looked a horrid mess and Elsie felt true nausea in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes were bruised and blue, her face a bloody mess, with spatterings of red here and there. Her ragged dress was ruined. The worst part was the way she’d just stood there - let herself be hit over and over again.

Elsie turned furiously to the boys. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” she screeched, pointing at Isla. “What you’ve done is evil! You hear me?! Evil!”

Dudley and his friends shared a look and a wry, knowing smirk.

Elsie straightened, her nostrils flaring. “All of you,” she spat. “Come with me.” Then she turned tenderly to Isla and helped her to her feet. “Alright, let’s go, dear,” she added gently. She walked Isla into the school building in front as Dursley’s gang shuffled along behind. The playground paused to watch in silence.

No one seemed surprised. How long exactly had this bullying been going on?

Elsie took the boys straight to the headmistress’s office. Upon report, the headmistress immediately let the boys in to see her and the door shut behind them. Isla was waiting patiently and calmly, still a bloody mess, outside the receptionist’s area.

“Elsie,” said the receptionist Samantha as Elsie turned to go back to Isla. “Just so you know: Nothing will happen to them. None of those boys will be punished by their parents, Dursley least of all. That’s how it always works.

“And it’s particularly awful in light of this case.”

“What do you mean?” Elsie asked, frowning.

“You didn’t know?” said Samantha in surprise. “Potter’s an orphan. She lives with her aunt and uncle - Dursley’s parents. Dudley Dursley is essentially her brother.”

-

Elsie was still troubled as she helped the school nurse fix up Isla Potter. Isla took it all very bravely and calmly, barely even wincing - but in complete silence. She just stared straight ahead, impossible to read.

Elsie began to notice other things, now she took the time to look. Isla Potter was dressed in something almost no better than rags - barely even a dress. But Dudley was always dressed well and the Dursleys were supposed to have money.

She also looked very… tiny and weak. Underfed. All this was more obvious in a girl than it might have been in a boy. Was Elsie now imagining the worst, or was she finally just really seeing the truth?

After the nurse left, Isla made to get down and Elsie put a hand on her shoulder. “Isla,” she said, concerned, “does that happen to you a lot? That being picked on and beaten up?”

“... Sometimes,” Isla answered at last. She didn’t elaborate.

“Your dresses - are you always so harsh with them?”

“... That’s what my aunt and uncle say.” 

What an odd way to put it. “Alright, Isla,” Elsie murmured, “you can go.”

-

“You did your freak thing on Dudley!” Aunt Petunia shrieked, clutching her son protectively, in the Dursley living room that night.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Isla insisted. “Really, I didn’t!”

“Don’t lie to us!” Uncle Vernon boomed. “Let’s try a week in the cupboard and see if your manners and behavior improve!”

“No - please - I didn’t mean to -!”

Uncle Vernon grabbed Isla by the scruff of the collar, shoved her into her bedroom - the closet underneath the staircase - and slammed the door shut, leaving her in the dark.

-

Elsie Stevemark noted as Isla Potter didn’t appear at school at all the following week.

Dudley Dursley went to school every day and behaved much the same as before. Obviously no punishment had been offered. Elsie asked him once where Isla was.

“She’s sick,” said Dudley, an obvious, bald-faced lie, giving her a vicious, smug grin as if knowing she couldn’t do a thing to gainsay him.

When Isla finally appeared back at school, she was mostly healed but even paler and quieter than usual.

Elsie held her back after class, before lunchtime. “Isla,” she asked sympathetically, as they were standing alone in the empty classroom, “have you been sick?”

Isla gave her an odd look. “No,” she said, as if this was a very strange and confusing question.

Elsie’s eyebrows rose. “Really?” she said, puzzled. “Your cousin said you were.”

Isla’s green eyes widened and Elsie saw it for just a moment: true panic and fear had crossed her face. “Oh - I mean - yes. Sort of,” she muttered. “Sorry.” She ducked her head and hurried out of the room.

Elsie stared after her.

Then she marched straight down the hall to the headmistress’s office. She blew past Samantha and walked right into Headmistress McKinzie’s main abode. “Ma’am,” she said firmly, as Samantha ran to the doorway with a cry and Headmistress McKinzie looked up with surprise from her desk inside, “I just thought you should know. I think I may have to report Isla Potter for potential child abuse.”

The headmistress sat back, troubled, her hands steepled. “Are you sure? We’ve always gotten weird reports from Isla Potter. Mysterious things tend to happen around her - a teacher’s hair changing color, for example. One time she was found on the top of the school chimney!”

“And you never wondered if she was trying to escape from something?” Elsie asked intently. The headmistress paused, her eyes widening. “Ma’am, her own cousin chronically bullies her. As for the weird occurrences - you never wondered if those might be happenstance? You blame those things on her because her aunt and uncle do, right?

“You never considered that she may be acting out because of bad family circumstances - or, worse yet, that her aunt and uncle may be blaming her for things that are not her fault at all?”

Headmistress McKinzie was very still and silent for a long time. “Make the call,” she said at last in an angry, steely voice. Headmistress McKinzie was the type of stern woman who did not exactly like being played for a fool. “Make the call now, here in my office. With myself and Samantha as witnesses.

“This stops now.”

-

Larissa Goldplum leased the school counselor’s office for a day, with the counselor’s willing assistance. She was a social worker from Child Protective Services. The call had been made less than twenty-four hours ago by no less than three anonymous sources, and she was here to interview two children in particular.

No, the Dursley adults did not know she was here. Yes, she was interviewing the children at school while they weren’t present. Yes, this was perfectly legal.

“Call in Isla Potter first,” she said, all business, smoothing down her business skirt in the counselor’s office chair. A smaller chair was set ready across from her in the office full of colorful posters. “She’ll be in class right now, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the counselor willingly, and she left to go pull out Isla Potter from her morning primary school classes.

Isla entered, looking cautious and confused, a few minutes later. Larissa immediately took note of everything that had already been noticed: the ragged clothes, the fading bruises, the silent and tense caution, the physical weakness indicating possible malnutrition. She began taking notes on a clipboard with its back facing Isla.

“Isla,” she said politely, “please take a seat.”

Isla sat slowly down. “What’s going on?” she asked, almond-shaped bright green eyes deceptively sharp and observant behind round, wire-rimmed glasses. She was a tiny little thing with a thin face, a bun of messy black curls, and a lightning bolt scar on her forehead. Ordinary looking, but not ugly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Larissa Goldplum, and I’m here to interview a couple of students today,” she said simply. “How did you get that scar?”

“Oh.” Isla immediately pulled down her bangs over the scar, as if it embarrassed her, her first sign of overt personality. “In the car crash that killed my parents. I was a toddler.”

“Do you remember it?”

“No. I don’t remember them either.” Isla looked puzzled, as if wondering why this would be relevant. “Sorry you had to see it. Aunt Petunia always calls it horrid.”

“Does your aunt insult you often?” A perfect segue.

Isla gave Larissa a single, hard stare and Larissa realized that behind those eyes was a deceptively strong, intelligent little girl. This would be difficult. “What kind of interviewer are you?” There was no hesitancy this time.

“Isla.” Larissa leaned forward. “Are you afraid? Of your aunt and uncle?”

Isla paused.

“Because if you tell me everything they’ve done, and it’s bad enough… I can ensure you never have to go home again. And if it’s not bad enough, no one in your home has to know this kind of conversation happened. Not for a long time, at least.”

“But they might find out eventually?”

“... Yes.”

“... But you could get me out of there?”

“You really want to get out of there, don’t you?” Larissa realized.

Isla seemed to decide it was worth the risk. She took a deep breath and leaned back in her seat. “Ask me anything you want to know,” she said, and no little girl should ever have to look that serious.

“Well, let’s start by you telling me something about yourself. What are your hobbies and interests?”

“... I don’t really have any.”

“Describe your personality to me.”

“... I’m quiet. Cautious, I guess.”

“That’s it? What about school? Do you care about your grades? Who are your friends?”

“I was never taught to think much about my grades. I don’t have any friends.”

“What do you hope to get from future relationships?”

“... I don’t hope for that kind of thing, Miss Goldplum.” Larissa must have looked disturbed, because Isla added, “My relatives prefer that I have as little personality as possible.” She sounded very matter of fact about the whole thing.

“Do they do the same thing to Dudley?” Larissa asked.

“No. Dudley gets everything he wants. I’m made to sit and watch,” said Isla softly. 

“Is Dudley against this?”

“No. He enjoys showing me all the things I can’t have himself.”

“So you don’t have many things. What about thoughts? Questions? Daydreams? What do you have mentally?”

“I’m not allowed to be curious, ask questions, talk about my dreams, or talk about imagination.”

“So your open thoughts are very tightly controlled.”

“... You could say that.”

“What are your favorite books? Television programs? What kind of music do you like?”

“I’m not allowed fiction or music, ma’am.”

“Why are you dressed like that? In rags, with broken glasses? Will they provide you with no better?”

“No. This is all they give me.”

“And you didn’t do that to the clothes or glasses yourself, correct?”

“Correct.”

Isla spoke in a dead, flat monotone, staring straight ahead of herself. She seemed to have retreated inside herself.

“Why don’t you have any friends?”

“Because Dudley bullies me, so no one will talk to me. People think I’m odd anyway - the way I dress. My relatives prefer it that way. They don’t want me to have friends.”

“They isolate you?”

“I guess.”

“What else should I know that is basic?”

“Well - my bedroom is a cupboard. The closet under the stairs. They have extra bedrooms, but I sleep in the cupboard.”

“Are there cleaning supplies in there?”

“Yes. And spiders. Until school started, I was never really taken outside the cupboard except for chores.”

“Were you ever deprived of food?”

“Not extremely… but yes.”

“Did you ever feel unloved? Was any affection ever shown you?”

Isla snorted. Larissa had no idea how her face must look. “Miss Goldplum,” said Isla wryly, a cruel, ironic smile crossing her features, “don’t you understand? My relatives never wanted me. They hate me.”

“Can you think of anything good they ever did?”

“Well, they encouraged me to look after myself. I was always supposed to be independent. They wanted me to be able to read, walk, ride the bus on my own, you know. Ever since I was pretty young. And they gave me lots of chores to do from a pretty early age. That’s the best thing I can think of,” Isla admitted. “I mostly look after myself.”

“What about birthdays or Christmases?”

“I was forced to watch Dudley open presents. Crying wasn’t allowed. And I was never allowed any sweets either.”

“Why were you absent from school all last week?”

“Because… when something bad happens around me, even if I didn’t cause it… I’m locked in the cupboard. You know, for a long time.”

Larissa had become very still. “... Are you ever let out?” she asked in a deceptively calm voice. 

“Twice a day. To pee.”

“And food?”

“Well, it’s shoved through the cupboard door if the punishment lasts longer than a day or two.”

“Do you have any babysitters?”

“One. Little old Mrs Figg. She treats me pretty badly and I think that’s the way the Dursleys prefer it. They never let me on fun trips with the rest of them.”

The Dursleys. She didn’t even call them her family. Larissa had never stopped taking notes and she noted this, too.

“Describe your aunt to me.”

“Aunt Petunia is really obsessed with cleanliness. She could do all the cleaning herself but she forces me to do a lot of it instead as she watches. She seems really angry and poisonous all the time. She’s obsessed with no one ever being dirty and I think she kind of sees me as dirty.

“Uncle Vernon likes yelling. It makes him feel better. He’s a bully and he likes power. It’s why he’s a big corporate guy at work and we live in a really nice suburb. I think he likes making me feel weak - helpless. And I think he likes making everyone else feel the same way.”

“How do your aunt and uncle make you feel?”

“... Erm, unspecial, I guess.”

“You don’t think you’re special.”

“... No?” Isla said this like it should be obvious. “I’m not good at anything and I’m ugly.”

“Do they often insult your appearance?”

“Kind of, I guess.”

“Do you have any sense of wonder about anything, Isla? Any sense of imagination or curiosity?”

“The Dursleys wouldn’t like such things, Miss Goldplum.”

“Do you think they ever take anything out on you?”

“Yeah. I think the world frustrates them, so they yell at me and bully me instead. Dudley’s the same way - he beats me up so much because no one will stick up for me and I’m an easy target.”

“So you don’t feel safe around him, either?”

“I’d rather take my aunt and uncle, Miss Goldplum,” said Isla skeptically. “And that says a _lot.”_

Larissa nodded and made more notes.

“What do you know about your parents?”

“Nothing.”

“Any parental figure in your life?”

“No.”

“Do you trust any adults?”

“No.”

“Anyone you joke around with?”

“No.”

“Do you ever argue against any of this?”

“No.” Isla gave her an odd look. “Who exactly would I turn to?”

It was a good point. “What’s your foremost goal in life?”

“To survive.”

“Do your aunt and uncle ever hit you?”

“No.”

“Do they ever… touch you in any other way?”

“No. They like to stay as far away from me as possible.” Then Isla’s nose wrinkled. “What other way would there be?”

A blessed moment of rare innocence. Larissa sighed an internal breath of relief. “Never mind. How do you see your family’s treatment of you?”

“Bad.”

“... Nothing else?” Larissa wanted to know if Isla ever used the term abuse.

“No. Just bad.” Isla swung her little feet in the chair, now gazing around the office in bright interest. She was just starting to get comfortable and at ease.

“Do they treat you nicely in front of others?”

“Sometimes. A little. Then sometimes they’ll punish me later.”

“By locking you away?”

“Only if something really bad happened.”

“So if someone told them about this interview, you’d be locked away?”

“Probably.”

Larissa looked directly into Isla’s eyes. She saw a kind of quiet defiance and wisdom there that humbled her. Isla had decided to take the risk anyway. “You,” said Larissa at last, “are a remarkably brave little girl.”

“I don’t feel brave,” said Isla honestly.

“How _do_ you feel?”

“Nothing good,” said Isla, wrinkling her little nose again.

“What do your aunt and uncle tell you about yourself?”

“Well, they complain about me.”

“In front of you?”

“Yes. They never call me by my name. They act like I don’t have any feelings. Sometimes they talk over me like I’m not there. They always treat me like I’m really nasty and disgusting.” Isla took a deep, shaky breath, but she was still talking. She was handling this better than Larissa, who was at risk of becoming openly emotional. “They tell me I don’t deserve anything, I’m ungrateful, and I cost too much to keep around.”

“Do you think they know you’re unhappy?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Isla gave another old, cruel, ironic smile. “I think they’re doing that on purpose.”

“Anything else?”

“They refuse me things for no other reason than to make me unhappy. They think it’s funny when I’m embarrassed in front of others, and sometimes they embarrass me on purpose. They call me a freak.”

“... They call you a freak?”

“Yes. That’s it.” Isla became still again and stared straight ahead of herself, because this was her whole life summary and she had nothing more to say.

“Isla, how do you see your future?” said Larissa at last. “Do you have anything to hope for?”

“Well… the Dursleys call me a hopeless case. I’ve never really thought of my future,” said Isla honestly. “The first piece of hope ever… is you coming here today.”

“What do you mean?” Larissa frowned.

“The only thing I ever hoped for,” said Isla, “was some adult I’d never met coming to save me. I never thought farther ahead than that.”

-

Larissa took Isla by the shoulder straight out of the office, past the staring receptionist, and into the headmistress’s office. The headmistress sympathetically offered her a biscuit from a tin, which Isla took with surprised uncertainty. 

Meanwhile, Larissa called the police. “I’m a social worker with Child Protective Services,” she said in a low voice in a corner. “I have a child here who’s been heavily abused by her family. A report is to follow, but she can’t go back home this afternoon. I fear for her life.”

“Has it been physical? Sexual?”

“She’s been locked in a cupboard and starved.”

A long silence on the other end of the line. “... We’ll be right over.”

“Try to be discreet,” said Larissa softly.

She felt it her duty to stand and wait in the office till two policemen came in. Then Larissa knelt down before Isla, who looked alarmed.

“Isla,” she said kindly, “you are not under arrest. These people are going to take you with them until you can be placed in a new foster home, okay? I’ll write the report and make all the arrangements. You never have to go back home again.”

Isla looked at her. “Who _are_ you?” she finally asked wonderingly.

Larissa gave a sad smile. “I’m a social worker. And it’s three of the staff members at this school who suspected something was wrong and called me in.

“Not all adults are bad, Isla.”

Isla paused - then threw her arms around Larissa’s neck and hung there. Larissa felt a few tears wet her shirt. “Thank you,” Isla whispered tremblingly.

Then she sniffed, wiped her eyes, and walked firmly up to the headmistress. “Thank whoever called for me,” she said in a very grown-up voice.

“I certainly will,” said the headmistress weakly, smiling tremblingly.

Isla turned to the policemen. “Let’s go. Anywhere that isn’t the Dursleys’.” She walked out with them, her chin held up high.

Larissa went back to the office in private and cried for several minutes.

-

Dudley’s interview was next. He was a very overweight, ruddy-faced blond boy in nice clothes. His interview was shorter and far less harrowing, but as Dudley grinned and talked on and on about his home gleefully, crowing, a few things became immediately clear:

Dudley was overstuffed with food and his every whim was gratified - just so he could be paraded around in front of Isla. This frankly wasn’t a much healthier upbringing.

Dudley regularly threw tantrums and beat people up to get what he wanted. Dudley particularly loved beating up Isla because he was always allowed to do it.

Dudley saw nothing wrong with any of this. He thought his childhood was ideal.

Larissa let him go and wrote the full report. She immediately faxed it to the Surrey city police station and gave them a second call.

The police would be preparing themselves by the time Dudley Dursley was home from school. Larissa could work fast when she had to. 

She’d heard a bit from Dudley about Vernon’s sister Marge so she recommended the police send someone to find out more about her as well. Marge quite frankly didn’t sound much better than her brother, though she would probably only get probation as she lived so far away and didn’t have as much interaction.

The police agreed to take Larissa’s recommendation.

-

“What?! This woman just came in and asked you questions about our home and you answered?!” Petunia shrieked frantically back in her big suburban house, staring in horror down at Dudley - he alone had walked home from school that day.

“Well, yeah,” said Dudley, confused. “She was official or something. Did I do something wrong?”

Vernon cuffed him around the head and Dudley cried out in shock. “What happens in this house does not leave this house! Do you have any idea how much covering we’ll have to do?!” he barked.

Just then, there was a knock on the door followed by the door being thrown open unceremoniously. Policemen were standing there, flashing cop car lights behind them.

“Vernon and Petunia Dursley, you are under arrest for charges of extensive child abuse,” said a policemen, walking forward with handcuffs.

“Now wait a minute, you’ve got this all wrong! I demand -!” Vernon began.

“Mr Dursley, with all due politeness, I would recommend you save your demands for a solicitor,” said the policeman dryly, handcuffing Vernon Dursley and leading him out of the house. All the neighbors had walked outside to stare.

Petunia began screaming as Dudley was led out of the house separate from her. “Where are you taking him?! _Where are you taking him?!”_ Policemen were struggling to hold her back. “Duddy!”

“Mum!” Dudley looked panicked; for the first time in his life, everything was working against him and he was frightened.

“He will be placed in government custody and like the girl he will be sent to foster care,” said one of the policewomen holding Petunia back quietly. “They will be sent to different homes.”

“No! NO!” Petunia only vaguely registered that Vernon had begun struggling and yelling like a bull or a winded rhinoceros, there in full view of everyone else outside. She herself was shrieking and crying, becoming increasingly hysterical, as she was led out of the house separate from her son.

Because all of a sudden, she saw it all happen at once: Her sister was taken away to a fantastical world, secret and hidden to all without power, and she wasn’t. Her sister died, and her sister’s orphaned daughter was placed on her doorstep.

Over and over again, Lily and her family had ruined Petunia’s life. It had all been an inevitable slide into ruin the moment Lily’s magic had been discovered.

Petunia’s one point of pride was that the explanation letter for Isla was locked in the hidden drawer underneath her jewelry box. No one would ever find it, and Isla Potter would never know that she was an exceptional being full of mysterious powers, that those strange coincidences hadn’t been coincidences at all.

Isla Potter would grow up not knowing she was a witch, nor even knowing that witches existed in the first place.

-

Mrs Arabella Figg, a spy for a certain wizard called Dumbledore, was in a quandary.

She had only treated Isla Potter nastily because it was the only way she would be allowed to babysit the girl. Secretly she’d always felt bad for her, not understanding the true extent of her home treatment. But Mrs Figg was a spy for Dumbledore and her job was to make sure, first and foremost, that Isla never left her blood relatives’ care.

The right thing to do at this moment would be to contact Dumbledore. A few spurts of magic and everything would be back to the way it was; this whole thing would be forgotten.

Here was the problem… the Dursley adults were the only ones who wouldn’t forget.

So here Arabella Figg was in a quandary. Dumbledore insisted that blood magic would protect Isla from outside threatening forces. But this seemed paranoid, as there currently _were_ no outside threatening forces left after that awful famous night Isla was orphaned, and if Isla was kept with her aunt and uncle after all this… they could actually kill her.

So was Mrs Figg more frightened of Dumbledore, or frightened _for_ Isla Potter? Which part did she act on? She, like everyone else in her neighborhood, knew the Dursleys had just been arrested for extreme child abuse - that the man of the house’s sister was also being brought in for questioning.

She also knew that Isla growing up in the wizarding world, spoiled and entitled, was no good either. Isla Potter was famous among them and for some very dark reasons concerning her back history and the death of her parents. That wouldn’t be healthy for any child.

Growing up among non-threatening Muggles might actually be the best thing for Isla. This might be the greatest blessing in disguise she’d ever been given. Did Mrs Figg follow the blood magic rules and ignore this?

… No, she decided. Arabella Figg was a Squib, born to wizarding parents without magic, and this may well be the most important thing she ever did. She was allowed this one act - which was to let the blood protections fall and let Isla grow up somewhere even slightly better, thereby effectively keeping her from ever having to live under the Dursleys again. Even when her own world finally came back for her, the blood protection would be long gone.

No blood magic protection was worth extreme child abuse. Not for Arabella Figg.

So she wrote Dumbledore a letter - Dumbledore, the strongest and most important wizard she’d ever met - and she made up a series of stories, and ended by telling him all was well in the Dursley house.

As Isla Potter was put into Muggle foster care and was made a ward of the Muggle state, the wizarding world moved on, oblivious to this change in their favorite child celebrity’s status. A simple change of custody did not make national Muggle newspapers, it happened every day, and Mrs Figg was the only other direct, knowledgeable window into Isla Potter’s life.

Mrs Arabella Figg made up hundreds of believable stories in letters and Floo calls to Dumbledore for years. In reality? She had no idea where Isla Potter was. And neither did any other witch or wizard. That was the kindest gift Arabella felt she could ever offer.

She even stood up to the threat of Albus Dumbledore to give it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You should keep an eye on Dudley. It’s probably too late for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. I feel sorry for Dudley. I might joke about him, but I feel truly sorry for him because I see him as just as abused as Harry. Though, in probably a less obvious way. What they are doing to him is inept, really. I think children recognize that. Poor Dudley. He's not being prepared for the world at all, in any reasonable or compassionate way, so I feel sorry for him."
> 
> –J.K. Rowling, November 2000
> 
> I thought I'd start out with a reminder that Jo has tacitly admitted that Harry was abused, as well as directly admitting Dudley was abused also.
> 
> Here's the situation, guys. I knew a female Harry Potter story would be different from childhood, and after years of writing I have finally realized I cannot credibly write a different Harry Potter childhood story without _someone_ in a position of authority finding out Harry has been abused. It's the part that's least credible about his childhood, nobody seeming to suspect a thing, and I find the fact that his entire abuse backstory is glossed over in the text downright disturbing.
> 
> All of the facts in this chapter were canon. I wasn't just making shit up. This is me amongst other fans taking a really close look at how Harry was actually, canonically treated _according to him._ I thought perhaps Dudley beating a little girl up, for one thing, might look different than him beating up a little boy. I used this as a catalyst for people at school starting to suspect a female Harry has an abusive home life.
> 
> It says a lot for the Dursleys that female Harry just willingly walked off with two policemen, choosing foster care over them without even learning anything about it first. This, also, is something I strongly feel a child Harry would have done in canon. His desperation to leave the Dursleys is downright dangerous.
> 
> I was also speaking in this chapter to a criticism I've heard of Harry, which is that he is the character with the least personality in the series. I would agree to the extent that I think Harry is hard to change credibly as a character in fanfiction... because there is specifically so little character quirk within him in the series. Yes, he's brave and noble and self sacrificing, also sarcastic and angry at times, rather quiet, but he has very little sense of humor, passion for hobbies, interest in grades or magic, curiosity, overt and obvious personality traits, quirks, and independent beliefs... anything that would make him remotely recognizable as a character. Later he finds Quidditch, but he doesn't even seem to follow the game professionally or form a favorite team. He also doesn't willingly seek Quidditch out - it practically runs into him at a sprint. Same with his favorite food - it's the first dessert he ever ate at Hogwarts.
> 
> However, I don't believe this is bad writing on the part of Jo and I don't think it's Jo trying to make her character super relatable either. I think she is saying something about Harry's past - that it made him that way. His Hogwarts years didn't help. Harry's entire life has been purely based on survival. I started thinking... what if I gave a Harry-like character a few years that weren't like that? What if I even gave that character some help - without sending them back to the wizarding world? What would change?
> 
> "I think I'd most like to spend a day with Harry. I'd take him out for a meal and apologize for everything I've put him through."
> 
> \- also J.K. Rowling
> 
> Sure, it sounds like she's kidding, or maybe like she's just talking about Harry's teenage years. But think about it: is she really?
> 
> Oh, and also, I'm operating under the assumption that not even Dumbledore knows everything and that's why he put Mrs Figg in Little Whinging in the first place. I'm not sure anyone in the wizarding world was ever aware just how extensive Harry's abuse was.


	2. Chapter 2

Isla soon learned the exact nature of just what the foster care system was.

She was sent to a stranger’s home. There had to be at least one adult there who was wealthy enough and had enough space to care for a new child. That adult or those adults must also be tested out as physically and mentally healthy - not nasty people, for starters, which was a vast improvement over the Dursleys. All these people willingly chose to become foster parents for isolated children.

The so-called “foster parents” went through training prior to taking in children and they were paid by the state, for medical expenses for example.

Foster homes only tended to last for short periods of time in different places. Isla began a great hop from school to school and from home to home. Her clothes were not great, rather poor and drab, but reasonably nice; her old, broken, round glasses were thrown away and she was bought a new pair of square black frames to go with her messy bun or ponytail of black curls, her bangs always hiding her lightning scar. She was not treated badly, but rather with distant kindness and basic human respect, which was much preferable. She was fed more and slept better. Honestly, not much else changed.

A few things became common. Every time she got a new foster parent she had to pronounce her name for them. “Eye-lah,” she would say over and over again. “Isla is eye-lah.”

More than one child was typically in a foster home at once, because there was never enough resources and space. So Isla often shared even bedrooms and storage space with fellow foster care kids. She learned all the types of children in foster care: the orphans, the ones who had been abandoned by their families, the ones like her who had been abused and never wanted to go back, and the ones who were dreaming and hoping of the day when they _could_ go back to their families.

“So you were abused,” the other kids would always say, whenever Isla told them her back story.

“No.” Isla would frown. “I was just… I was just treated badly.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. _That’s_ why social services took you away,” one boy responded. The children Isla spoke to always remained unconvinced. Foster children had a gift for crippling bluntness when it came to the ills in life.

Still, no one was a bully - no one was even close to Dudley, who had been sent far away because of his violent history with Isla - so Isla didn’t mind. She got to know social workers rather well and formed a keener appreciation for the work that people like Miss Goldplum did. They took care of the out-and-out people in society for a living and she found that really admirable. The more she looked back on the day she was saved and her dark life before that, the more miraculous it became.

Isla spent some time in foster care and it did have certain effects. She became less tense and carefully silent, less tiny and weak, and she looked better. But she _was_ still quiet, and she became even more used to poverty, super independence, keeping a low profile, and only herself caring for herself. Isla was the one person in her corner and she knew it. 

She was also self thinking. She was wary of immediate inclusion, she hated bullies, and she had trouble letting people in and making friends. Some Dursley lessons stayed with her. She was also embarrassed by fame, riches, properness, popularity, and anything else that reminded her of what she mentally termed Dursley Values.

Meanwhile, a legal battle had ensued that she kept careful track of. The Dursleys were fighting the state in court, particularly for a lack of prison time and the rights to having their son back. Isla never saw them, but she kept a close eye on how their court case was going - it was the one thing that made her nervous. 

She read the final news in the Surrey newspaper one morning over breakfast and her eyes widened. “My… my Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are serving five years in prison. They’re not getting anyone back. Termination of parental rights. Permanent criminal record. My Aunt Marge isn’t getting anyone either and she’s on probation at her country house.”

She was in total disbelief. She could not even imagine her snooty, suburban, pristine aunt and uncle in prison.

“Well, what did you think would happen?” said her current foster mother, clinically and philosophically, bustling around the kitchen. “That’s exactly it.” She opened a cupboard door to look for cereal.

“Yeah, good riddance. Fuck them,” said one of Isla’s current foster sisters, an older thin and dark-skinned girl with long braids of hair from a very poor and very abusive family. She seemed to have reacted to her abuse by becoming as defiant and angry as possible.

“I… I’ll never see them again,” Isla breathed. She sat back and a smile of awe filled her face, but at the same time she felt the strangest sense of loss. Those people had been the only family she had ever known. She had no other relatives.

-

This keen sense of loss happened one other time.

Her current foster mother at the time stood with her in the living room and handed her a letter. “This came for you,” she said, hands on her hips. “Your cousin Dudley has been sent to juvenile detention for a few years for violence. Landed some other poor kid in the hospital.”

“... I wish I could say I was surprised,” Isla admitted, staring down at the letter in her hands with a strange feeling in her stomach.

“I don’t know how you turned out so normal.” Her current foster mother patted her on the shoulder and moved past her. “It’s just you now, kid.”

Isla stood in the center of the shabby postage-stamp-sized living room and felt very alone indeed.

-

But her greatest gift had been yet to come.

That same last foster mother sat Isla down in a living room armchair one day. She was sitting on the sofa across from her. The foster mother leaned forward and put her hand on Isla’s knee, ignoring Isla’s slight stiffening.

“Isla, I have some news for you,” she said.

“Not bad, I hope?” Isla wondered.

Her foster mother smiled, a fairly rare occurrence from a usually scowling, scolding, serious woman. “No, nothing like that,” she said. “When you were put into the foster care system, the state made up an adoption profile for you. It has a photo of you as well as your basic history, including a record of your behavior time in foster care.

“A family took a look at your profile and they want to meet you. For a potential adoption,” she added slowly, when Isla stared uncomprehendingly.

“They… want to adopt me?” Isla choked out. “But what if they’re awful people?”

“The parents are profiled before they’re allowed to adopt a child. They checked out,” said Isla’s foster mother, looking worried. “Give them a chance, will you? This could be great for you. Don’t you want a permanent family and a home?”

“Well… I’ve just gotten so used to looking after myself… but yes, I do,” Isla admitted, looking down with a little furrow of trouble between her eyebrows. “I… I’d like a family… that loves me,” she added with hesitant longing.

Her foster mother just looked at her sadly.

“So… so how does it work?” Isla cleared her throat. “And… why on earth would they choose _me?”_

“Well, think about it, Isla. You’re very appealing. You’re a fairly good looking, cleaned up girl. You don’t have any troubling behavioral history. You’re still a child. And I hear they were looking for a second daughter - they already have a biological one, younger than you.” Her foster mother leaned back and shrugged. “In my experience? It’s a damn good offer and you should go for it. The couple even has money. They’re professors in London. Big glittering city. Fairly nice careers. It’s appealing, I’ve got to be frank.

“Now, here’s how it works. They take you out and spend a day or two with you. If you all like each other, they know your history - so they have to go through training in how to deal with…”

“Fucked up people,” said Isla flatly. She’d picked up some bad language from her time with other foster kids.

Her foster mother winced. “I was going to say traumatized children,” she half-scolded. “They may also arrange for individualized therapy for you with a private psychologist - the sort of thing the state can’t fund.

“After that, you live with them for several months while a legal intent to adopt is finalized. And at last, a judge finalizes the adoption in a court session and congratulations, you have a family.

“Their names are Sarah and Foster Miles. Their daughter’s name is Lettie. They want you, Isla. Will you meet with them?”

“... I’ll meet them for the same reason I admitted to my treatment,” said Isla at last in a deadly voice. “It’s a risk, but it’s the best option I have for survival.”

She pictured herself slowly climbing a ladder. Would love also be nice? Yes.

Was she convinced she’d get it…? Not exactly.

-

Sarah stood beside her husband Foster and her tiny daughter Lettie, smiling in the doorway of the foster home. It was not exactly a wealthy place, one story and ramshackle with a dusty screen door. Sarah was nervous and trying her best to smile. She’d told Foster she had a good feeling about this one - and she did. Sarah’s instincts were rarely wrong. She wanted to impress. 

The girl stood in front of them, cautious and impossible to read, and Sarah hoped the girl saw what she was trying to put forward - a kind, quiet woman in her thirties with shoulder-length soft brown hair and blue eyes surrounded by worried smile lines. 

Foster, a thin man with silvery salt and pepper hair, stood next to Sarah in a button-up shirt and nice pants, smiling a little uneasily - he was nervous himself. Only Lettie, a tiny girl with short brown hair in barrettes and a big skirt, was excited and rambunctious. She ran up to the foster girl beaming and stuck out her hand.

“Hi! I’m Lettie Miles!” she said loudly.

The foster girl paused - and then gave a small, wry, fond smile, almost despite herself. She bent down and shook Lettie’s hand very officially. “Hello, Lettie Miles,” she said quietly. “I’m Isla Potter.”

Oh thank goodness. They’d been worrying they’d mispronounce her name.

“I’m Foster Miles,” said the man, smiling and leaning forward to shake Isla’s hand. “This is my wife Sarah.”

Isla shook both their hands, becoming more serious. She was a tall, skinny girl with a ponytail of wild black curls, bangs, square black framed glasses, almond shaped bright green eyes, and a thin face. “I hear you’re professors in London city,” she said softly, glancing from one to the other. “And you’re looking for a second daughter.”

“You heard right,” said Sarah with soft warmth. “Shall we go? We were thinking of going to the park and having some ice cream. Is that okay? Would you like to do something fancier?” she added worriedly. Foster smiled and rubbed her shoulder he had his arm around comfortingly.

“Oh, no.” Isla smiled slightly. “Ice cream would be fine.” She seemed like she was making an effort, but open trust did not come easily to her.

They walked out toward the car and Isla said suddenly, “Sorry. This is the best I’ve got.” She waved with embarrassment down to her sweatshirt and baggy jeans.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” said Sarah, rubbing her shoulder. “We’ll fix that soon enough, if you’d like.”

Isla seemed surprised. “But… you don’t even know if you’re going to adopt me yet.” She blinked big green eyes.

Foster chuckled. “Oh, Sarah has a good feeling about you. She’s already pretty much made up her mind.” Then he saw Isla’s expression. “Sorry,” he said, worried. “Did we make you uncomfortable?”

“Oh, it’s my trust issues. Not yours,” said Isla quickly. “I… I guess you already know, I don’t come from a nice family. The people I was actually taken from by the police were my aunt and uncle. And my cousin’s in juvie.”

She was remarkably honest. “What happened to your parents?” Sarah asked softly, concerned.

“Died in a car crash before I was old enough to remember them.” Isla lifted her bangs to reveal a lightning scar. “That’s where I got this.”

“You poor thing,” said Sarah. “Can I hug you?”

Isla stopped and stared.

“Sarah’s a big believer in hugs. As a matter of fact, the whole family is,” said Foster wryly, smiling gently. “Hugs and tea. We’re big tea-drinkers, the Miles family.”

“They’re fanatics,” said Lettie knowingly.

“We’re currently trying to convert her,” said Foster cheerfully, pointing at his daughter.

Isla examined them for a moment - then smiled uneasily. “Sure,” she said cheerfully, seeming bewildered. “I’ll take a hug.”

Sarah reached forward and gave her a nice, warm hug, enveloping her in the scent of cinnamon. Isla paused and stiffened - then suddenly hugged her surprisingly tightly back. She hung on for a good few moments and when she stood back her eyes were suspiciously damp. Heartbreaking though the thought was, Sarah wondered when the last time Isla Potter had been hugged actually was.

“So.” Sarah smiled and put a hand over hers. “Ice cream.”

They all got into the car - shiny and clean just for the occasion - and they drove for the park.

-

The Miles family really was trying, Isla realized. Lettie, who had the spirit of a warrior and the smile of a sun, ran around the green park and regularly showed Isla all the fascinating rocks, leaves, and feathers she found on the ground while exploring. She chattered on about them, loud and excited. Isla tried to be bright and encouraging. She sat on a bench in the meantime with Foster and Sarah and over ice cream, Isla’s first delicious treat in a long time, they told her a great deal about their family.

Foster was an anthropologist and Sarah taught literature. They were both huge bookworms and big readers, as well as huggers and fanatic tea-drinkers. They believed in the power of education. They seemed kind, quiet, and gentle, perfectly nice-looking with a good car and evidently a townhouse in London with its own bedroom just for a new child, which couldn’t come cheap.

“Why are you looking for a second daughter?” Isla asked once curiously.

“Well… we had a biological one… but we also wanted to take one in,” said Sarah fondly. “Take care of her, heal her, comfort her.”

“It was Sarah’s idea. I liked it too, but I’m along for the ride. She’s surprisingly strong-willed,” said Foster, who seemed to be in a state of perpetual wry amusement.

Isla realized she felt calmer than she had in a long time. She was no longer on a razor sharp edge. Sitting there in the quiet park having ice cream with the Miles family, she felt a peculiar bubbling in her stomach. It took her a while to define that feeling as happiness.

There was just one matter she had to make sure of first. A silly matter for others, maybe, but not for her. She’d already made up her mind.

“Mr and Mrs Miles… there’s just one thing I need to make sure of,” she said quietly at last, uncomfortable. Looking surprised then concerned, they leaned forward, Foster’s arm still around Sarah. “You guys would of course be my family… but could I keep my original name? Potter included? It’s the only thing that’s always been with me, and, well… it belonged to my parents. My… biological… parents. I… I don’t really have anything else from them.”

She waited on tenterhooks, hoping this wouldn’t offend them or break the deal. Hoping she hadn’t just screwed this up.

She needn’t have worried. Foster and Sarah Miles looked at each other and smiled. “Oh, don’t you worry about that,” said Foster. “Isla Potter is a perfectly lovely name; we wouldn’t dream of making you change it.”

“Yes. As long as I get to be called Mum, I don’t mind.” Sarah smiled. “We’re Mum and Dad, but you can have any old surname you want.”

“Actually, I looked up your name, because I found it very interesting, and do you know what it means?” said Foster brightly, with almost dorky eagerness. “Isla is an island off the coast of Scotland. It’s also known as the Queen of Hebrides. You’re real, bonafide royalty!”

Sarah nodded along eagerly.

It took Isla a moment to realize the world was blurring because tears had stung her eyes. She wanted this - she wanted this badly, and for stupid reasons she'd promised wouldn't affect her judgment. She ducked her head as even Lettie paused from her playing to stare. “Please,” Isla begged in a trembling voice most unlike her usual one, her eyes squeezed shut. “Please. I promise never to bother you, or cause any trouble. I’ll be perfectly polite; I’ll do everything you ask. Just please give me a home!”

“Oh!” Sarah quickly leaned forward and hugged her tightly, warm and cinnamon scented. Her voice seemed a little trembly itself. “You are not a bother,” she told Isla firmly in her ear. “Of course. Of course we’ll adopt you.”

She turned to Foster, her voice surprisingly steely. “This is the one,” she said fiercely.

Foster smiled as Lettie gasped and beamed. “Somehow,” he said, “I had a feeling she would be.”

And so the adoption process was started to officially make Isla Potter a part of the Miles family.


	3. Chapter 3

The Miles family _had_ gone through trauma management training that Isla didn’t witness, but only for a couple of weeks. They seemed anxious to have her and fairly soon they had driven up to her foster home and were loading her overnight bag in the back of their car.

“Is this it?” said Foster, peering anxiously into the boot of the car at the single overnight bag.

“Oh, yeah,” said Isla wryly. “That’s definitely it. This is all so surreal. I still can’t believe it,” she admitted.

“Well, you’d better start,” said Sarah cheerfully, patting her on the arm and heading toward the car. “Because it’s happening.”

Isla turned to her final foster mother before she left. “... Thank you,” she said. “Especially for, you know… for convincing me to give this a try.”

Isla’s final foster mother stepped up from in front of her ramshackle house and gave her a quick hug - the first sign of open affection ever. “Be good,” she whispered in her ear, patted her on the back, and stepped back. “Trust me. It’ll go a long way.” She winked.

Isla smiled. “Thank you. I will.” She got into the car, in the back beside Lettie, who was chattering her excited little head off.

Isla watched out the window as the Miles family car moved away… and her final foster home faded into the distance. They rounded a corner and it was gone. She gave one last glance back - and then looked forward, determined.

From here on, she decided, everything would be different.

“Do… do I get to call you Mum and Dad now?” she asked tentatively, in a trembling voice.

“You certainly do!” Sarah beamed from the front. She seemed on cloud nine today.

“Yes. It’s all but official. It’ll be a few months yet, but we just have to wait for the court date,” said Foster cheerfully from the driver’s side.

Isla smiled and looked out the window, taking deep breaths.

“Why are you crying?” Lettie asked, concerned. “But smiling at the same time?”

There was a silence in the car. “Because I’m happy, Lettie,” said Isla, looking over at her. “Because I’m happy.”

-

They drove up in front of the townhouse and parallel parked on the road. Isla and the rest got out. 

It was on a crowded, hilly London street. No garden, but that was alright; proper, square gardens just reminded Isla of the Dursleys. The townhouse was nice and tall, two stories and brownstone, with a lovely tree outside already shedding red, gold, and orange fall leaves. Neighbors crowded close together on either side on the slanting downward slope.

Downtown zoomed and honked by below.

“What do you think?”

Isla looked back and realized the Miles family was waiting nervously for a verdict. “I think it’s brilliant,” she said, smiling.

Dad took up her overnight bag and they all walked up the front steps and entered through the deep reddish-brown front door. Isla walked in, pausing and looking around.

There was not enormous space, but the place was nicely furnished. There was a living room to her left, a steep and narrow staircase to her right, and directly down the hall was the kitchen and dining room. Upstairs must be the bathroom and bedrooms.

The Miles family - no, Isla’s family - seemed to pick comfort over refined furnishings, which was just the way Isla liked it. The Dursleys had always been the other way around and that idea filled her with distaste. In the living room, for example, there was a fireplace with a wood mantel piece, there were soft piece of furniture in a gentle blue color, a huge and magnificent bookshelf set right to the ceiling took up almost one entire right side wall, there was a tiny television in the front left corner across from the furniture, and there were lamps dotted here and there with stained glass shades decorated with carved flowers. It was a bit dim and dark inside, comfortable, her own secret little hideaway.

“I like this a lot,” breathed Isla.

“Good,” said Mum firmly. “We’ll have to take a new family photo. We’ve got to start adding pictures of you in the living room.”

Photos of her in the living room. That was a new one.

“Come on. Bedroom’s up here,” said Dad casually, hefting her overnight bag up the steep, narrow stairs and down the upstairs hallway.

“You know, I can carry that if you want me to,” said Isla, pointing at the overnight bag.

“No!” Dad feigned defensiveness, leaving Isla startled. “I want to carry it!” He clutched it protectively. Isla realized he was kidding and she smiled.

“You’re never allowed to carry anything for yourself again!” Lettie sang mockingly, skipping past them down the hall to what she already must know was the correct bedroom. It was at the very end.

Isla walked into the bedroom and took a deep breath of awe.

Was it as big as a bedroom back at the Dursleys’ house? No. But in Isla’s eyes, it was far more wonderful.

It was a fair space, nice and open and airy. It had a white lacy window curtain set and a big bed with a headboard, a turquoise blanket reminiscent of the sea, and two fluffy pillows. Outside the window that was set in the left side wall, past the curtains, a soft, cool breeze was blowing and she was up high enough that she could see distant rooftops and the London sky. The sounds of the city were faint outside.

Isla felt her heart get so big it might be about to burst. Already, this felt more like home than any of her previous homes ever had.

“It’s a bit bare,” said Mum worriedly. “We wanted you to be able to decorate it for yourself.”

Isla turned to them. She wanted to say she loved them, but didn’t want to come across as too strong and push them away. Instead she said, with all the feeling she could, “It’s wonderful. Thank you.” Mum smiled.

Dad set her overnight bag down on her bed. “Dresser’s there,” he said, pointing to a wood dresser chest set that doubled as a bedside table with a stained glass lamp. “Mirror’s there.” He pointed to a floor length mirror hung amid the bare furnishings on the right side wall.

Dad put his hands on his hips. “We will have to get you more things,” he muttered. “Oh well.” He shrugged philosophically. “Come on, Lettie.” Lettie was arranging her gift of a seashell collection on the windowsill. She’d confided secretively to Isla that she’d gotten them last year at the seaside. “Let’s let your sister get settled.”

“Yes, come on, sweetie. Tea and biscuits.” Mum put a hand on Lettie’s head and led her gently first out of the room. Dad followed. “Come down when you’re ready!” Mum called to Isla, and then the door shut.

Isla took a deep breath and sprawled herself out on the bed with a careful, gentle _thump._ She stared at the white ceiling. She suddenly felt exhausted, like she’d just come back to familiar, loving territory after a very, _very_ long trip.

Tea and biscuits would be waiting for her downstairs, she knew intuitively, but the first thing she did was fall asleep.

-

Isla’s family certainly was very huggy. 

Physical affection was their thing. Isla soon had to learn to get used to sudden physical contact, because all the members of her family loved tugging her gently forward by the hand, or putting a warm, comforting palm on her arm. Mum hugged her every day and Dad often put a hand simply on her head with a soft, proud smile. Isla was a little frightened at first, but then she couldn’t get enough of physical affection - like she’d been starved for water for so long she’d almost forgotten what it tasted like.

Tea was another thing. The family brewed tea three or four times a day, every day, and tea was a balm for anything. A conversation or a bit of gossip? Tea. Comfort was needed? Nothing like a strong cup of tea. Tea was immediate and necessary.

Mum taught Isla how to brew tea properly. She filled her head with all the different kinds of cuppas there were and insisted she try all of them until she chose a favorite. Every afternoon the family had tea and biscuits together.

Isla’s parents also insisted on books. They brought her all their favorite books, setting the pile on her dresser drawers bedside table, and they read to her and Lettie every evening, Lettie and Isla sitting on the carpet in the living room by their feet. Sometimes the fire would be going. It was like she was a child again, getting a bedtime story like any other little girl would have.

Naturally intellectually curious by nature, Isla soon began devouring all the books in the house hungrily. They were quite interesting once she got started, and she loved sitting on her bed by the open window, feeling the breeze, listening to the city pass by distantly outside, just reading - reading for hours. Her starved mind was suddenly opened up to new vistas of thought and imagination. They even watched television sometimes at night or listened to classical music, though books were always the main focus.

Dinners together at the warm, round kitchen table were wonderful. Isla was allowed all the food she could ever dream of, hearty meat-and-potato dinners. Christmas was a dream. They all picked out a tree together, Dad hefted it home, they set it up in the entryway, they decorated it together. Mum and Dad kissed under the mistletoe in the open living room doorway. Mum, Lettie, and Isla baked baskets of Christmas sweets to go to all of their quite friendly family friends and neighbors - sneaking treats in the meantime themselves. None of the people they gifted to had a problem with Isla; all were quite welcoming, in fact. Excitable Lettie was more nuisance than help during the baking process, but though Mum scolded, she never really got angry.

Isla’s Mum and Dad scolded - and their disappointment was the most horrible thing Isla had ever experienced. But the whole family was quite soft spoken, even extroverted Lettie was deceptively gentle and wise for her age, and no one ever really got angry the way Isla was used to.

The dynamic was quite marvelous actually. Isla learned that she felt _very_ protective of her little sister, that she and her sister fought but also made up, giggled and laughed and had fun with each other. Lettie teased her often in a good-natured way, collected every random thing she found that interested her and played with the boys as well as the girls, and it just made everything _easier._

Mum and Dad were true parents. Her mother worried and scolded her gently about the messy state of her room and made her food; she was soft spoken, kind, sympathetic, always ready with a comforting cup of tea for a chat. Dad taught her things, showed her books, got dorkily enthusiastic about obscure subjects, said he was proud of her, smiled a great deal whenever she was around. Mum and Dad were big believers in talking things out, whatever the issue, and they became her greatest comforters and the people she went to for advice.

No one ever hurt her or lost their temper. More bafflingly, everybody seemed to like her.

When school started, they all went to school together in the car during the day, people being dropped off at various destinations. Isla kept her distance, determined not to be bullied, and as no one singled her out and she dressed reasonably well, she was left blessedly alone. No judgment. And she would be staying here for once, becoming familiar and usual, which was quite remarkable. She had to up her academic grades a little, because Mum and Dad were firm on good grades and she hated to disappoint them.

Isla explored London, occasionally with her whole family - she was for the first time included on fun family weekend brunch trips - but often just taking Lettie with her. Clever Lettie knew all the most fun places to go in London, super confident, and Lettie and Isla had great fun exploring a big city together. Though the family did go on summer nature trips, Lettie confided, they were city people at heart.

Dad read the news a lot and commented on it. But unlike with the Dursleys, Mum joined in his passion. Also unlike with the Dursleys, Isla was not yelled at when she asked a question. In fact, sometimes she was directly taught quite a lot without any of her own prompting.

“It’s important that you understand all this,” said Dad fiercely. Isla’s family gave to charities and political organizations a lot.

There were problems, for which Isla always felt very guilty. For one thing, her parents seemed alarmed that she didn’t have more opinion on things like bedroom decorating, clothes, and hobbies.

“I just… like what you like,” Isla said awkwardly, but her parents remained concerned.

“You’re very quiet and you don’t show much personality,” Mum said. “You don’t seem to be making any friends.”

Compared to Lettie or even her parents, Isla was starting to realize the same thing. She thought it might be her history. She’d never had time to pick up quirks, hobbies, and desires before. She had trouble with trust of strangers. All of a sudden, she was safe - and people were starting to wonder, nonjudgmentally even, why she wasn’t more open with herself.

Isla didn’t know how to be open.

And there were further issues. Isla was very wary around her family at first. She didn’t want to push them away. Then, once she felt secure and realized she wouldn’t be pushing them away, it all came unplugged. All the years of wanting affection and never getting any.

Isla turned to her family as her savior and became extremely high-sensitive to any criticism from any of them. Suddenly she was a mess. She had no idea what to do with herself, what was wrong with her, how to fix it. She cried the minute she was scolded, wailed and hugged her parents and apologized and told them how much she loved them at the first sign of disappointment. She was super obedient. She even got upset when Lettie had a fit of temper or demanded more time in the bathroom.

At the same time, she never told anyone whenever anything was wrong. She didn’t want to ruin so many perfect moments.

Her parents’ trauma training was obvious during her panic moments. They knew just how to talk her down out of a spell of anxiety, not to get angry when she didn’t know how to open up. Whenever Isla got upset, Lettie would sympathetically leave Isla one of her little gifts. But at last, Isla’s mother sat down with her at the kitchen table, her father beside her. Lettie hovered seriously in the kitchen doorway clutching a doll.

“Sweetie, I don’t want you to get upset. Because we’re not judging you at all,” her mother began.

“We’re not angry either,” her father added gently.

“But I think we may need to take the social worker’s advice and start you on therapist meetings,” her mother finished.

“What if it doesn’t work?” said Isla in a high, fearful, trembling voice. “Will you give me away?”

“No,” said her mother firmly. “You’re our daughter and we’re not giving you away. But I think the fact that you would even _ask_ that by now means you need to go talk to someone.

“This can’t continue.”

Isla swallowed. That was what her parents wanted - and that was what she would do. The tiny rational part in the back of her brain even pointed out that they might have a point.

“Okay,” she said shakily, nodding. “I’ll go see a therapist.”

-

Her therapist was a serious blonde woman with an office decorated in soft, romantic shades of red, pink, and gold lining. There was no desk between them. Isla sat on a sofa and her therapist in a chair across from her. There was an Impressionist painting on one wall.

“My name is Charlotte Carbyle,” said the therapist. “Either Charlotte or Ms Carbyle will be fine. I find that the ‘doctor’ title puts people off, so let’s not go there. You can start with Ms Carbyle and move to Charlotte when you feel comfortable, if you’d like,” she added gently.

Isla swallowed and nodded, trying to push down her anxiety. “That - that might be better.”

“Alright,” said Ms Carbyle. “So. For this first meeting, we’re just establishing what you need to talk about with me in these sessions. I will then talk you through all these things that you’re going through.

“Now, I have a report here from the social worker who ordered you be removed from your aunt and uncle. Miss Larissa Goldplum. It tells me a great deal, but is there anything you want to add?”

Isla had prepared this speech. She nodded, took a deep stabilizing breath - and talked about it all. The foster care, being adopted, and everything that had happened afterward. Ms Carbyle nodded silently, made notes, rarely interrupted or spoke up, and never judged.

“Very well,” she said at the end, finishing her notes on the clipboard. “That tells me pretty much everything I need to know about where to begin.”

She smiled cheerfully, as if knowing Isla’s nerves might need some bracing.

“This is all quite manageable, alright? Everything will be just fine. Nothing scary will happen in these sessions. We’re just going to talk you through all these things that have been happening to you, and I will offer some possible solutions. We’ll talk this out together, okay? And your family can be as involved as they wish to be.”

Isla sighed in relief, nodded.

“Next session, we start you out on your therapy visits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is all from Isla's point of view, but I really needed to cover her in-depth here. It could all really only be from her perspective. Next chapter we start getting other points of view again as well.


	4. Chapter 4

Ms Carbyle sat down in her first session not only with Isla but with Isla’s family, upon her own request. Their presence was comforting together on the sofa on either side of Isla.

“I wanted to know more about Isla’s apparent suppression of her own desires and personality, her lack of self knowledge,” said Ms Carbyle, leaning forward in her chair. “I was curious. Which is why I called you all in here with me. I thought we should all work together in helping Isla discover more about herself first. A strong sense of self will help her throughout the following sections as we deal with… difficult subjects.”

Isla felt a little shiver and had to admit to herself that Ms Carbyle had a point.

“So tell me more about what you mean by Isla’s self suppression,” said Ms Carbyle, sitting back. “I would like to hear from Isla’s family and then from Isla herself.”

“Well,” said Mum, hesitant but thoughtful, “we’re worried about her. She seems to have little overt personality or quirk, very little sense of humor. She doesn’t have many personal interests or hobbies. She doesn’t know what she wants in clothes or how she wants to decorate her bedroom. It’s like she… was always left a blank slate by all the people who took care of her before. It’s extremely troubling.”

“There’s more,” added Dad seriously, as Lettie swung her feet on his other side. “She seems to have very low expectations and dreams when it comes to relationships. It’s not just that she doesn’t have friends or a crush; it’s that she doesn’t even know what she wants in one. She’s never been able to get that far in her life before.

“She doesn’t know what her favorites are in anything. You could ask her what kind of books or music she prefers, what her favorite food is, and she wouldn’t be able to tell you. She has very low motivation on her own in school, no favorite subjects, she doesn’t know what she wants to do with her future. She can’t swim, she can’t ride a bike, and she seems to have no… innate curiosity, no sense of imagination.

“I don’t see these as faults in her. I see these as things that terrible circumstances and awful people have taken from her - temporarily,” he added, looking over at Isla, who tried for a shy smile.

“Isla? Would you like to respond to that?” Ms Carbyle asked.

“Well… I don’t know if I’m suppressing anything… I just was never allowed to be a person before,” said Isla, troubled. “I was always either trying to survive or simply not paid any attention to, shifted from one home to another. I never…”

“You never got the chance to be a person,” Ms Carbyle finished kindly, for Isla was having visible difficulty speaking out.

“Yes. And I _want_ to be. I’ve been realizing that. I want to be an individual,” said Isla. “I just… don’t know how to go about it.”

“Well, wanting is the first step,” said Ms Carbyle. “We’re all here to help. I will give you some exercises in our sessions so you get more in touch with yourself step by step. Then, I believe I can count on your family to help you with those exercises outside these sessions?”

“Of course. We want nothing more,” said Mum quickly, as Dad and Lettie nodded, Lettie looking curious.

“Very well. Then we shall begin. This is the ‘fun’ part of therapy.” Ms Carbyle smiled and tentatively, Isla smiled back.

“Think of it this way, Isla,” said Dad. “You have an incredibly rare opportunity to reinvent yourself - you can be anything you want. How many thinking people get that privilege?”

Isla became thoughtful.

-

Charlotte Carbyle watched Isla Potter and the Miles family leave her office. That girl - to seem so healthy after being repressed for so long, that was quite a thing.

Charlotte knew Isla’s story disturbed her more than she liked to admit. The girl really did have incredible tenacity. Charlotte would watch her sit nervously on the edge of the sofa, hands clutched, struggling to hold back so many emotions, rocking a little…

And Charlotte would think that some people in this world really were despicable. 

She would just have to try to help Isla Potter the best she could.

-

They started out with exercises to let Isla lower her guard. Personality discovery and character traits was part one. 

“Here we have to toe a fine line,” said Ms Carbyle. “We want you to be who you want, but at the same time we don’t want you to lie to yourself. So the goal in rediscovering your personality is to let who you are flow more naturally and trustingly, openly. You can then decide which parts of yourself you like and which parts to work on, as we all must.”

Isla’s family helped her with the exercises, also asking her frequent questions and including her in lots of interactions in an effort to help her get better in touch with herself. 

Slowly, Isla learned that she had a rather dry, sarcastic sense of humor. That part came surprisingly easily.

“Use that as a jumping off point,” Ms Carbyle encouraged. “Think of it like a chart, with your sense of humor in the center. What personality traits spring outward from your rather dry, sarcastic sense of humor?”

Teasing came next, a mischievous sort of gentle kidding. Isla, on her therapist’s recommendation, carried “quiet” over into “calm” - so that she was no longer shy and retiring, but rather a very calm person, ever poised and tough.

But Ms Carbyle wanted her to go deeper.

So on the surface, Isla was a calm, poised, tough, but teasing and sarcastic person. Underneath, she learned that she was kind, protective, surprisingly vulnerable. So there became two layers to her, the person most people saw and the person she was underneath.

“This is quite natural,” said Ms Carbyle, when Isla voiced her worries about this. “Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve. The point is that you do have a personality, it’s pronounced, and you know what it is. You’re aware of yourself.”

Isla also carried her casual slang and swearing over from her time with foster care, turning it into a humor point, a quirky kind of bluntness and a funny way with words. Honesty became another characteristic of hers. And she learned, once she allowed herself to get angry when she felt it, that she had a short temper - especially, Ms Carbyle pointed out, when it came to her pride.

“When your pride is pricked, you can flare out like no other,” said Ms Carbyle. “Quite frankly, Isla, I would encourage you to get annoyed when you feel annoyed. If you try to repress it all, you may just erupt one day and hurt the people close to you very badly. But if you flare out and yell in brief annoyance or even sarcasm itself, and let the anger pass, that’s much healthier.”

Next Ms Carbyle worked on her low expectations and dreams from relationships.

The friends part was easy, once she had a better sense of her personality. Isla began imagining longingly having a group of strong, sassy female best friends.

“You may not have that yet,” said Dad. “But the longing is better than the not feeling anything at all, not allowing yourself to hope and long.”

The crushes part was harder. Isla had never seen herself as a romantic, but as Ms Carbyle had her talk for long sessions about what she wanted from a relationship, she realized she _was_ a romantic - in her own cozy, low key way, she did get blushing, squealing, excited over romance.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be open about that one,” said Isla, dryly amused and rather cheerful. “I’ll die before I admit I’m a romantic openly.”

“That can be a personality quirk as well,” said Ms Carbyle. “Just don’t let it interfere with your actual relationships in the future.”

“Okay.” Isla nodded seriously.

So there was a caveat to her cozy, low key, excitable romantic quality. Sassy and sarcastic and tough till the end, she pretended to be casual or even boyish. She would “die before she admitted she was a romantic.”

Ms Carbyle got her to start noticing boys - mostly what Ms Carbyle called their “aesthetic handsomeness” or their “coolness,” whatever that meant. Isla suddenly started blushing and smiling and getting shy when certain guys looked at her. She learned she liked muscley jocks, but also artists with a dark sort of flair.

“Don’t confine yourself to those stereotypes,” Ms Carbyle advised. “This is just good for noticing aesthetic attractiveness. No one should ever confine themselves to their type.”

Isla started to get more confident in Ms Carbyle’s life advice, even in giving it to others in her own fair, tough way.

-

Next came all the instances of what she liked. This was simpler. Isla went out with her family and tried everything in little sections, coming away with a pretty good idea of what she liked and what she didn’t based on what she enjoyed and what she chose.

Those weeks were lots of fun. Grinning and teasing, with her new lease on life, she had fun picking things out, choosing fun activities, and deciding what she liked for herself.

In personal interests and hobbies, she found she liked books, music, writing, and art. She began joining clubs and classes at school in these areas. She also, of course, had to find what she enjoyed in fiction and music. She loved vintage music, particularly jazz and soft alt rock. She found she loved dancing, even if it was just around her bedroom, not to music, getting ready in the morning. Her family enrolled her in partner dancing classes, where she thrived and had fun. Her favorite books were mysteries and detective fiction, as well as a good deal of scientific nonfiction.

Her family also introduced her, for the first time, to fairy tale movies and books for children. Her head was imbibed full of the fairy tales and cartoons she’d never been allowed to experience before, and they filled her mind with new images and ideals and imagination.

She ate a huge variety of foods as she decided her favorites. She found she loves strawberries along with anything with clotted cream - such as eclairs. She learned to enjoy baking and tea-brewing, even buying a few books on the subject and sometimes baking on weekends. She messed up alot at first, but her Mum promised her that was all part of the process. Isla learned to thrive and enjoy herself even while making mistakes. She finally decided she liked stronger, milkier brews of tea. 

Like her family, she became a reader and a tea-drinker. Of course, they’d already converted her on physical affection. She became a true member of the Miles family at last.

Next they dealt with her low motivation in school.

“It would help, I think,” Ms Carbyle suggested, “if we deduced what your favorite subject is first. That might motivate you better in school.”

So Isla started consciously noticing what she enjoyed about school and what she didn’t. She found she thrived and enjoyed herself most in areas like science and mathematics, and was a natural-born skeptic. 

“That’s incredibly rare,” said her father excitedly, “to find an artistic, creative person who can both write _and_ do science and maths! To find someone who can combine the two!”

Isla started using this tactic in both areas of interest for herself. And she found that encouragement was just what she needed. Slowly, she started to see herself as intelligent and take pride in her grades. And just like that, her grades shot through the roof. Her parents were delighted.

“You’re doing so well!” her mother squealed excitedly, hugging her, and Isla smiled and hugged her back, feeling warm. “You’re well on your way to becoming so well educated!”

This was another thing Isla learned - a full education was important. Her family even bought her a massive wooden roll-top desk to go in her bedroom for her schoolwork.

Next they dealt with her clothes. Isla had never been allowed to pick out her own nice clothes before, and now her Mum helped her, with money not really being an issue especially for the first big trip. Her Mum took her to the dressing rooms, helped her try things on, had her look at herself in the mirror and decide what she liked and what she didn’t.

Isla was pretty calm and reasonable about everything, but she finally decided on a look she most enjoyed. She wore striped tight tees and black pants, black paper boy hats, and black jackets. Then of course there was her bun or ponytail of black curls, her bangs to hide the scar she was still self conscious of, her square black-framed glasses. She still had a thin face, almond shaped bright green eyes, and a rather skinny body, but now she was tall for her age and she looked much healthier.

Next came some decisions about her future.

“You don’t need to know what you’re going to do with the rest of your life right now,” said Ms Carbyle. “But everyone needs to have daydreams about their future. It’s healthy. What would you like to do with all those spectacular grades at this point in your life, Isla?”

“Well… I’m good at science and maths… and I like nature and animals,” she decided.

“You do?”

“... Yeah,” said Isla, thinking about it. “I mean, I’m a city girl, like my family. But I do love nature and animals. This discovering about myself is starting to come easier to me now.

“So I think I’d like to be a veterinarian.”

Inspired after hearing this, her parents surprised her one afternoon. They came back inside the house after a “day out shopping.” Dad ducked around the door, grinning in excitement - and he was holding a beagle puppy.

Isla and Lettie gasped, delighted, and ran over.

“This is Isla’s puppy, technically, but it belongs to the whole family,” said Mum from behind Dad, as Isla took the beagle puppy in her arms.

Isla looked up and smiled, her eyes stinging. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “I love you.”

Her parents smiled and nodded back. “We love you too,” said Dad.

That never stopped being wonderful to hear.

Isla put the beagle puppy down on the floor and watched him toddle around, sniffing them. “He’s so cute!” Lettie squealed in delight, already playing with him.

“What are you going to call him?” Dad asked.

Isla looked at the puppy intently. “... Button,” she decided, looking into his big, liquid brown eyes. “After his eyes.”

And so Button the beagle became a part of Isla’s family. Isla was very good - she talked to him in a bright voice, played with him, even helped walk him, train him, and feed him. She was determined to show her gratitude and be a responsible pet owner. Besides, she and Lettie both agreed - Button was fun. (Most of the time. When he wasn’t peeing on the rug, he was fun.)

Her bedroom decorating came last. Isla chose a dark, scientific nature theme, inspired by her recent self discoveries. Paintings of massive brown trees went on the off white walls. She put fossils and shells on shelves. The walls were also decorated with dark animal carving images, and her duvet was a creamy color with a brown leaf pattern. Button also always slept on her bed.

As she also added other things about herself around the bedroom reflecting her clothes, interests, and hobbies - and as she slowly became neater and cleaner under her mother’s scolding influence - the room really started to feel like hers.

But the open window looking out over the city was still her favorite.

-

Their last mission was harder: They had to encourage curiosity, questions, dreams, and imagination in a girl who came from a family that had actively tried to stamp that out of her.

This only came over time. Dad would point out curiosities and encourage every question he could think of - as well as keeping her updated on the news which Isla also enjoyed reading. Mum recommended she keep a dream journal for a while. Lettie showed off her drawings, asked Isla to show her own, and talked constantly about her own dreams.

Slowly, through a combined effort, it started working. Though Isla was sensible, grounded, never daydreamy, she became much more curious and imaginative. She imagined wild things, anything could spark her imagination or her curiosity, and she learned it was healthy to ask countless questions. And ask and imagine she did.

Last but not least, her family got her a bike and gave her biking lessons, as well as swimming lessons at a local pool. Isla learned to love both forms of exercise.

She was much improved - but looked at approaching therapy subjects with dread. Now, she knew, came the hard part: discussing trauma itself. Her only consolation was the knowledge of herself she now had as well as the wonderful support she had so far received.

Ms Carbyle was ready for her.

-

In a private court session, a judge at last finalized the adoption.

As he signed, stamped, and banged the mallet, Isla’s family started cheering and hugging each other but she was practically ready to collapse from relief. After all this, it only felt right that the Miles’s would be her family, and now the last hurdle was overcome - they were, forever.

And they felt more like her family than the Dursleys ever would.

As they left court with all the paperwork - Isla’s original surname kept - Dad said excitedly, “Let’s go celebrate. I say ice cream.”

“Ice cream, ice cream!” Lettie cheered.

“Like the first time,” Isla smiled, and her mother put a hand over hers.

“Like the first time,” she said quietly and warmly.

Isla felt like her heart was about to burst. “I love you guys,” she said quietly, but with deep meaning in her eyes. “You would have to be my family, you know.” They looked at her in surprise. “You made me who I am.”

Dad and Lettie smiled.

“Oh, we just helped, dear,” said Mum firmly. “Now. Ice cream.”

And so they went out to celebrate the officializing of the adoption. 

Unbeknownst to Isla, the final blood wards fell.

-

Sarah put a hand gently on Isla’s back - _her daughter’s_ back - gliding her into the ice cream shop.

Isla had come far, Sarah had gotten to know her so delightfully well as a real child and a person, but Isla still showed an overwhelming amount of emotion and affection over simple things sometimes. Her eyes would become dark and full with meaning; she would say dramatically loving things over the smallest kindness.

“I was in the dark for a long time,” Isla had said once, in an unthinking moment while brewing tea over the stove, her back to Sarah. “After that, it’s natural to appreciate the light more.”

Charlotte Carbyle insisted Isla’s emotions would even out over time, that she would become more secure. Sarah hoped it was true. There was still so much trauma for Isla to deal with on the horizon.

She and Foster had privately talked and agreed they would just have to be there for her through it all.


	5. Chapter 5

Isla sat nervously on the edge of her seat. Charlotte watched her in concern from across the therapist’s office.

“Okay, Ms Carbyle.” Isla swallowed and looked as if she were facing the guillotine or the gallows. It was rare, now, for her to look so afraid and serious. “I’m ready.”

“Now, it’s not as bad as all that. Let’s try to keep calm,” said Charlotte, attempting to be soothing. Isla took a deep, shaky breath. “We’ll work on this one issue at a time.

“So let’s talk about friends.”

Isla looked up reluctantly, determined, as if forcing herself to face Charlotte in the eye.

“I’ve read the report and talked a bit about it in our first session,” said Charlotte. “But why don’t you tell me, in your own words, your history with friends.”

Isla nodded, licked her lips, took another bracing breath. “I… I don’t really have one,” she admitted, in a falsely calm voice. “My cousin Dudley, the one in juvie… he bullied me and beat me up, so everyone kept far away from me. Also… I was dressed in awful clothes by my aunt and uncle… so no one wanted anything to do with me.”

“Now let’s pause and look at this, Isla,” said Charlotte. “Do you really think it was entirely judgment and fear that kept all those children away?”

“Why? What else would it be?” Isla looked openly bewildered.

“Let me put it this way: does that tally with the people you’ve met since?”

“... No,” Isla realized, her brow furrowed. “But… I don’t get it, what else could it have been?”

“Think about how you seemed, Isla. I would like to put forward the idea that for some nastier people, it was judgment and fear… but others may just not have known what to say. The children noticed your treatment before the adults, right?” said Charlotte gently.

Isla nodded, looking confused, wary.

“What if they didn’t know what to say? Through no fault of your own, you kept to yourself, seemed eerily emotionless and without personality, wore ragged beaten clothes and broken classes, were tiny and weak, were bullied and beaten up regularly… I’m sorry to be so blunt, are you okay?” Charlotte added, worried, as Isla looked down with pain clear in her face.

Isla swallowed. “Yeah,” she said, probably lying. “Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just… I’m starting to see myself, now, through other people’s eyes.”

“This is good. You’re starting to see objectively how awful it was. But those were just small children, Isla. Not all of it might have been judgment. Some of them might not have known what to do,” said Charlotte gently.

Tears had sprung to Isla’s eyes. She kept silent, trying to hold it all back. “Isla, it’s best if you let it all out,” said Charlotte bracingly.

“Damnit - I don’t like crying in front of -” But Isla’s voice was trembling. She put her face in her hand, that strong girl, her expression working, and she started crying. She was terribly adult about it, sitting straight in her seat, elbow leaned on the sofa armrest, face in her hand.

Her own eyes stinging, Charlotte swallowed and waited for Isla to compose herself.

“This is healthier,” Charlotte said in a hushed, shaken voice after a while. “You have to be able to cry, Isla. When we cry, a rush of chemicals runs through our brain and we actually feel relief - we feel better. There is no shame in crying. It’s your body trying to make you feel okay again.”

Isla nodded and sniffed, her face red and teary. But she was done. Charlotte handed over a box of tissues that Isla took to wipe her nose and face.

“I’ve never cried over any of it before,” she said in a watery voice.

“This is good,” said Charlotte. “It means you’re finally acknowledging it - facing it head on.”

Isla smiled wryly. “How totally stereotypical,” she said cheerfully, “to cry in a therapist’s office.” Sure enough, her mood was starting to improve.

“Stereotypical for a reason, I think,” Charlotte scolded gently. Isla smiled wider and nodded, acknowledging the point.

“Now,” Charlotte continued, “it was in the Dursleys’ best interest to make you think no one liked you and everyone was judging you. It made you feel isolated. Isolation is very common from a terrible family or partner. The more isolated you are, the less you feel like you can get out from under them. Understand?”

Isla nodded seriously.

“So let’s return to friends. We’ve acknowledged that your lack of friends early on was definitely your family’s doing. Not only that, but a lot of it might have been uncertainty instead of social judgment. Some kids might have wanted to help you, but not known how.”

“I’d have known how to help,” said Isla, frowning indignantly.

“Yes, but - and forgive me, Isla - you’ve already been through all that yourself. Usually the only people who know how to handle such situations are adults, and sometimes not even them.”

“... True,” Isla admitted.

“Now, let’s talk about your life after the Dursleys. I want to make a brief aside here. You said you have become embarrassed by fame, riches, properness, popularity, and anything else that reminds you of the Dursleys.”

“Yes.” Isla nodded definitively.

“This will only come with time, Isla,” said Charlotte slowly, troubled, thoughtful, and careful, “but please do try to keep in mind that not all such people are your aunt and uncle. In fact, I would say even most of them aren’t. Just because someone is rich or famous, just because they’re traditional or popular… that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a terrible person like your relatives. Understand?” She looked at Isla meaningfully over the top of her glasses.

“... Yes,” Isla admitted. “But, well - it’s just a distrustful instinct. I can’t help it.”

“I understand that. But the only way to overcome a bad instinct is to consciously decide not to let it control your life. So keep this conversation in mind for future reference.”

“... Okay,” Isla admitted reluctantly. “I’ll try.”

“This leads back into friends, because some future friends might have one or more of those characteristics. This does not automatically make them bad people.

“So explain to me what foster care was like for you in terms of connecting with other people.”

“... I didn’t,” said Isla honestly, surprised. “I didn’t connect with other people. I became even more used to not having anything, keeping low key, and being entirely alone in the world. I became independent and self thinking, but people who were automatically nice to me made me very wary and I hated bullies. I also… I guess had trouble letting people in and making friends.” She winced. “I still have that problem.”

“Not all of this is bad, Isla, though a lot of it is,” said Charlotte, and Isla looked curious. “Hating bullies is definitely a positive thing. Take your experiences and use them for good. And looking askance at someone who’s just giving you handouts is also not always a bad thing. It keeps you -”

“From getting screwed over,” said Isla wisely.

“Well, exactly. But let’s look at it from a different perspective. You’re wary of anyone who’s immediately nice to you. What if some people really are just trying to be nice?”

Isla looked stumped.

“What I’m saying is that you have to differentiate. If someone’s just giving you endless gifts and compliments, that’s one thing. It’s something to look twice at. But if someone’s just trying to be nice… shouldn’t you be nice in return? Maybe they give you a birthday gift or say hi to you in the hallway. Is that really so dangerous?”

Isla looked thoughtful.

“And let’s look at the other bits. You are allowed to have things, Isla. At some point, you must get used to having a reasonable amount of money, even get used to accepting gifts with calm and reasonable grace. 

“And you are not alone anymore. And no one’s going to attack you. You don’t have to keep a low profile, and you’re not the only one in your corner anymore. Pushing yourself outside safe boundaries and out of that mindset is vital. You have to learn to be proudly unique, be yourself, hold your head high, and sometimes accept help.

“Being independent and self thinking is good, but this not trusting people? Not being willing to let them in? Getting overwhelmed by every little meaningful interaction? It has to stop. Being grateful for what you have is good, Isla, but as you allow yourself to have more meaningful interactions, those should become more normalized for you. 

“You have to let people in. That’s your assignment. I want you to practice letting people in, accepting kindness with calm grace. And in order to do that, you’re going to have to try talking to people and making some school friends.

“Let’s shoot over time for at least a couple of good friends and at least several acquaintances. That’s just to start out with, mind you. Keep letting people in over time. But during these first weeks, I’ll walk you through everything that’s happening. And so will your family.

“We’ll help you interact with people more and make more friends. This also isn’t so terrible, yes?”

-

Sarah stood in worry, as did her husband and her youngest daughter, as Isla came out of the office looking like she’d been crying. But she was smiling, and so was Charlotte Carbyle behind her.

“My assignment this week,” said Isla cheerfully, “is to let people in more and make more friends.”

Sarah moved forward and hugged her fiercely.

“Well that shouldn’t be hard,” said Foster. “You’re very loveable.”

“You’ll be beating them off with a stick,” said Lettie slyly, nudging her sister.

Isla showed a moment of strong emotion - then paused, took a deep breath, and smiled proudly, with true poise. She’d deviated away from extremes of emotion and chosen a more secure, muted answer.

“Thanks,” she said.

-

Isla, on her parents’ and Charlotte Carbyle’s recommendation, chose to try to make friends at her partner dancing classes and in her after-school arts and book club programs. Nervous at first, she forced herself to try talking to people, joking and making big, false laughter.

On her mother’s personal recommendation, she even tried to be herself.

The effects were remarkable. As she talked and joked more with her dance partners, more people wanted to dance with her and more people let her in on little in-jokes. They seemed to particularly appreciate wry, self deprecating humor - a little humility went a long way.

In her other activities, she started conversations with fellows about art and books, about her favorites, asking them about theirs and peppering in little, honest compliments. She got better at social interaction, especially with strangers, as time passed. She got better at being more natural and honest about herself.

She even, over time, became confident.

And she just made an ever wider circle of friends. She blew past her original goal and soon started making friends all over school. People just kept introducing her to people. She started being invited on play dates and to birthday parties. Isla was - and here she could hardly believe it - _popular._ Which she had just been taught to see more reasonably as a _good_ thing.

People actually liked her the way she was. Maybe, just maybe, she liked her own personality too.

-

But Ms Carbyle went for the gold in that arena.

One session she sat down with Isla and said without preamble, “Isla, you’ve said you find yourself unattractive. That you don’t like the way you look.”

“Well, yeah,” said Isla, staring. “I’m ugly.”

“No,” said Ms Carbyle calmly, “you’re not. And I’m not saying that as your therapist. You’re not a beauty queen, Isla, but you’re still young yet. And you’re not ugly. 

“Think about it,” she added intently, leaning forward. Isla must have looked skeptical. “Has anyone even hinted at unattractiveness since you left your relatives, and your health and clothes improved?”

“... No,” Isla realized, frowning. “No, they haven’t. Not even people at school.”

“So think back. Why would you think you’re ugly? Where did that come from?”

From myself, was Isla’s first thought. But then she reached farther back. Was that really it?

People at school hadn’t liked how she looked. But they’d already established that the Dursleys had done that. And the Dursleys… the Dursleys had always been insulting her appearance, in little ways.

And they were the first voices she remembered.

“Those _assholes!”_ she erupted suddenly in indignation. “I’ve been listening to my relatives the entire time! It’s the _Dursleys_ who made me think that!”

Charlotte seemed to resist a small, proud smile. “Exactly,” she said. “You’re not ugly. You in fact have the potential, especially now in a healthy environment, to grow into quite a lovely young woman. Acknowledge that. Embrace it. Like yourself, Isla. Unless you’ve done something terrible, it’s important that you do.”

Isla felt terribly grateful for Charlotte for a moment. She took deep breaths and tried to keep calm despite it.

“So let’s talk about what else the Dursleys have done. Just the family in general.”

Isla then experienced an odd sense of foreboding. Charlotte’s eyes were sharp. She was just going for it.

“We’ll start with deprivation. What did the Dursleys deprive you of, Isla? What have we established they took away from you?”

“Well…” said Isla slowly, troubled and thoughtful. “Dudley got everything and I got nothing. I was made to sit and watch. Even Dudley seemed to enjoy taking things from me. My aunt and uncle never intervened.”

Isla swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to keep her trembling voice steady. She was on the edge of her seat, hands clenched together in her lap.

“I was often locked away in a cupboard whenever something happened, even if it wasn’t my fault - and that was my bedroom despite the fact that there _were_ extra bedrooms.”

“And there were dangerous spiders and cleaning supplies in there,” Charlotte provided. “And how often were you taken out of the cupboard?”

“... Not much except for chores until school started. It was… very dark… and crawly… in there.”

Isla started to feel short of breath; tears had stung her eyes. She gasped out breaths, the tears beginning to leak more because her eyes were watering than because she was crying. Now that she remembered it, she couldn’t stop - the darkness - the tiny space - the spiders - for years -

She realized Charlotte was there, rubbing her back. “Shh,” she said soothingly. “Shh. Everything’s alright.”

Isla used that voice as an anchor and slowly came back to herself. The cupboard was gone. She was sitting in a big, lovely, expensive office.

“It’s gone,” she gasped out. “It’s gone.”

“That’s right, it’s gone,” said Charlotte, seriously and calmly. “And it is never coming back.

“... Are you okay?” Charlotte was looking at her closely.

“Yes.” Isla nodded, a bit shaken but returning to herself. “Thank you, Charlotte.”

“You’re perfectly fine,” said Charlotte, sitting back in her chair. She said nothing about the name change, definitely not contesting it. Perhaps it was okay to call mentors by more informal names, after all. “Finish, Isla,” Charlotte added calmly. “It will be hard, but you owe it yourself to finish. What else did you not have as a young child - that you have now?”

“... I wasn’t given enough food, I don’t suppose.”

 _“Definitely_ not,” said Charlotte sternly.

Isla smiled despite herself. “Definitely not,” she corrected. “I was physically weak. Often not paid attention to. Never given affection. Forced to be independent -”

“Probably overly independent,” Charlotte provided.

“Really?” said Isla in surprise.

“Isla, you were seven. You already knew how to wander the city by yourself and use the public bus route. From any proper parents, that would be essentially neglect,” said Charlotte, a little disbelieving.

“... Okay. That’s a new one.” Isla swallowed, still a bit shaken, and continued. “I was given lots of chores. I was never given a proper birthday. And I was forced to watch Dudley during birthdays, Christmases, and sweets times.”

“That should change shortly, though, shouldn’t it?”

Isla looked up in surprise, blinking big green eyes. “... What?”

Charlotte smiled. “Isn’t your birthday coming up this summer? July 31st?”

“You… you really think we’ll celebrate?” Isla asked tentatively, looking up with hope.

“Oh, I most definitely think you will.” Charlotte winked. “For now, just keep in mind, Isla… You deserved all those things. It was wrong for you not to have them. 

“Never let anyone tell you that you don’t deserve basic human kindness.”

-

Isla hadn’t entirely believed Charlotte, but it did happen.

The Miles family went on a summer nature trip, camping in a forest, and it was wonderful. They roasted food around the campfire, sat by the river, went hiking, climbed and explored around the nearby cliffs.

But just before they did that, over the summer break, they celebrated Isla’s birthday.

They took her and Lettie to a trampoline park, letting them jump around and yell like crazy all afternoon. Their parents watched with distant amusement. Then Isla was sung happy birthday at a big family Italian restaurant, and she was taken home for some candles in a chocolate and strawberry ice cream cake.

Her family cheered as she blew the candles out and made her wish: _Please let me stay with my family._

Then, to her startled delight, it was presents time - and she had a _lot_ of them, from school friends too. A bunch of her school friends took her out shopping with them the very next day for their own birthday celebration. (Chaperones included, of course.)

Isla felt grateful for her life and every single person in it.

And then they went camping as a family. It was fun and adventurous, and Lettie and Isla had great fun trying to pick out all the bugs and frogs that they could. They got wet and muddy trying to catch a frog in the local creek, but no go - it got away and their Mum scolded them for getting muddy.

This effect was rather ruined by Lettie and Isla repeatedly smirking sideways at each other and snickering.

Two important things happened during this period. 

The first was when Isla discovered she could talk to snakes. She had been padding up a forest trail alone when she heard whispering around her. She looked around in surprise - and saw a snake sleek as it slid through the grass by her feet. It opened its mouth - and out issued hissing words.

Isla frowned, bending down and talking to it for a bit. It could understand her just fine, to her confusion. It even told her where the best pinecone grabbing place she’d been looking for was - for her arts and crafts with the family later.

She watched it slide away - and thought of all the weird things that had happened to her during moments of anger or fear as a young child. And with her increased imagination, she wondered.

The second thing that happened was just as momentous.

Lettie had been playing by a minor rocky cliff side overlooking a creek bed. She slipped on wet stone, shrieked, and fell - her whole family cried out, standing and watching from a distance -

And then Lettie slowed down and stopped, hovering in midair, surprise etched on her face. She slowly floated down to the ground and sat there in surprise.

Mum sobbed and ran forward, taking the unharmed Lettie up in her arms. “Never do that again! That was dangerous!” Dad yelled in a rare fit of pique, mostly from fear, as Mum felt her up and down scolding her for bruise marks.

Isla just stood and stared, cold and shaken and horrified, from a distance. That could have been her own weirdness manifesting itself again… but her weirdness had never worked from that far away before.

And so she wondered: Did Lettie have her own weirdness? Had it really been Isla’s weirdness at all?

-

Isla didn’t tell Charlotte a thing about the weirdness or Lettie’s accident as she sat down to talk with her again back in London. Some instinct told her not to.

“Let’s talk about feeling trapped,” Charlotte began back in their next session. _“Did_ you feel trapped with the Dursleys, Isla?”

“Yeah,” Isla admitted. “Like I’d never get out except if someone came to save me - which of course someone did.”

Charlotte gave a small smile and a nod, but she was still listening closely.

“I mean.” Isla shifted uncomfortably in her seat, rubbed at the back of her neck. “During cupboard punishments, which happened a lot, I wasn’t even allowed to go to school. I was only let out to pee twice a day. Some days food wouldn’t be given to me at all. When it came again, it was only in meager amounts. Sometimes I had the guts to sneak out and try to steal food in the night, but sometimes I didn’t.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” said Charlotte. “It doesn’t make you weak. I hear shame in your voice, but your relatives sound like genuinely terrifying people. It’s not weakness to want to survive them. Just to bear up under them was very brave.”

Isla gave a weak smile. “Thanks,” she said, unusually softly for these days. “Anyway, that made me look physically even weaker and more neglected, I would guess. And they purposefully put me with a miserable babysitter, rather than taking me on fun trips with the family. There weren’t even any pictures of me in the living room.”

Charlotte looked at her for a long moment. Isla shifted uncomfortably, then decided to stare in a hard and fierce way right back. Charlotte seemed to repress an amused smile.

“Isla,” she said at last, and the next question was explosive in Isla’s mind for all of its quiet simplicity, “do you realize the Dursleys were abusive?”

Isla stopped, horrified and irrationally angry - and then she exploded. “No, they weren’t!” She shot to her feet. Charlotte just stared at her sympathetically. “They - they weren’t.” Now she was getting distraught, upset. “What, what I went through - they never hit me, it wasn’t bad enough to - _it’s not right to call such a mild thing abuse!”_

Her fists were clenched, her face twisted.

“... Isla,” Charlotte began.

“No.”

“Isla -”

“No.”

“Isla, _listen to me,”_ said Charlotte fiercely. “Because this is very important to remember for the rest of your life: Not all abuse is physical.”

Isla just stood and _stared._

“What they put you through - your cousin and his beatings aside, which I would remind you went unchecked - is known as neglect and emotional abuse.”

“That’s - that’s ridiculous!” But true horror was choking Isla.

Charlotte continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And it is just as bad as physical. Why do you think those social workers removed you? Why do you think your aunt and uncle were arrested? Why do you think you’re here?”

“But -”

“Is your reaction to what they put you through not indicative of -?”

_“Stop ignoring me!”_

Charlotte stopped cold. And Isla realized she’d been wanting to yell that for years. And she was terrified of losing Charlotte but also terrified of what Charlotte was saying.

“... Alright,” said Charlotte calmly. “What do you want to say?”

But Isla didn’t know what she wanted to say. “I’m not an abuse victim,” she repeated numbly to herself. “I’m not.”

But the words echoed through her mind: _Why do you think those social workers removed you? Why do you think your aunt and uncle were arrested? Why do you think you’re here? Is your reaction to what they put you through not indicative of -?_

_Abuse?_

Her Mum and Dad going through trauma training. Her foster mother calling her a traumatized child. The other foster children from broken homes calling it - abuse. Bad treatment, Isla had always protested - as if the two were different.

 _Sure._ The foster boy’s skeptical voice echoed through her mind. _That’s why you’re here._

Isla had sat down without realizing it. Charlotte had sat down on the sofa beside her. “It’s good that you don’t want to play the victim,” Charlotte said quietly. “But you do have to acknowledge it for what it is.”

Isla realized she was crying. “I - I hate them! _I hate them!”_ she screamed as it all hit her at once.

“Yes,” said Charlotte quietly. “As long as you don’t go kill them, feel free to.” 

Then she stood and left the office. Isla watched her go with choking terror, but in a clinical way, showing nothing, Charlotte had just gone to get Isla’s parents. They came in, sat beside her, and hugged her the way stoical Charlotte could not.

“I’m sorry,” Isla sobbed desperately to Charlotte.

“... That is your insecurity talking,” said Charlotte softly. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

Isla cried as forgiveness washed over her like a wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was light-hearted. Geez, sorry, guys.


	6. Chapter 6

Isla took a couple of weeks off from therapy. She walked Button, had playdates with school friends, bickered and played dolls with her sister, had tea and book talks with her parents. She spent a lot of time at home or in her room, even more exploring London.

She had to recover from the last few sessions.

“Honey… do you not want to go back to therapy?” Mum finally asked tentatively.

Isla looked up, steel in her eyes. “No, I want to go back,” she said determinedly. “That was always the plan.

“I can’t let the Dursleys affect my life any longer.”

And so she willingly dived back in for the final stretch.

-

“You’re back,” said Charlotte, sitting cross legged across from Isla once more.

Isla gave a wry smirk. “Surprise,” she said. “No way you’re getting rid of me.”

Charlotte seemed to repress an amused smile back. “Very good,” she said quietly. “That takes a good deal of courage. You really don’t give yourself enough credit for being brave, Isla. You now see yourself as intelligent, yes. Kind, yes. But you seem to reject the idea that you have strength and bravery.”

“I’m just not used to seeing myself that way,” Isla admitted. “I’m used to seeing myself as the weak one. But… I’m not, am I?” she added thoughtfully.

“No,” said Charlotte quietly. “You most certainly are not. Remember that.

“So let’s talk about your aunt and uncle. They had some personal issues, yes? Individual ones? I would like for you to tell me about them, in your own words.”

“Well… my aunt had this pretty anal retentive cleanliness obsession. Like… it was the opposite of my Mum. My Mum’s pretty easygoing, but she demands I keep a clean room. Aunt Petunia was just the opposite. She was this snooty rich suburban housewife, and while she never entered my private quarters, her house had to be spotless. There was always more dirt to combat, as if she felt her home could never quite get clean. And she made me do a lot of the cleaning.”

“You said in the original social worker report that you feel she thought you were dirty.”

“... Yeah. I still have that impression.”

“That’s disturbing,” Charlotte admitted frankly.

“Well, the Dursleys don’t exactly get points for mental health,” said Isla flatly. 

“It’s good that you recognize that.”

“Oh, I always recognized that. I just didn’t _used_ to think of it as abuse. I mean, I’m not dumb, am I?”

“No,” said Charlotte softly. “No, you are not. But abuse victims who fall for their abusers are not dumb.”

“I guess you're right. Anyway, Aunt Petunia always seemed really poisonous and vindictive - like she was angry about something but would never quite tell me what.

“Uncle Vernon was a bully. He yelled at me a lot. He had this weird power issue. He always had to be the one with the power, and he always seemed to be trying to make me feel weak and helpless. It was almost like he was afraid of me.

“Man… talking about them, it makes me realize how terrible they were,” Isla admitted, a bit disturbed now herself. “I guess I always just kind of thought they sucked and glossed over it.”

Charlotte gave a wry smirk. “That is rather the point of this exercise,” she said ruefully. “Anything else?”

“Well, the Dursleys always seemed really frustrated with the world. Their lives always had to be perfectly stable and the uncertainty of the world scared them. I think they took that out on me a lot.

“Then there was Dudley, who beat me up all the time. That was painful. It seemed I was always running away from him.”

“And as I mentioned,” Charlotte added, her lips tightening as if in anger, “it went totally unchecked.” It took Isla a split second to realize Charlotte was actually angry with the Dursleys - not with her.

“Yeah,” she said cheerfully. “It’s nice to talk about all of it. Not to repress it, you know. It’s nice to talk about how terrible it all was.”

Then Isla looked down, her eyes darkening.

“It’s still weird to think of it as abuse,” she admitted softly. “It makes me feel… I don’t know, really angry. Why does it make me feel angry and confused to call it what it is?”

“Because the word ‘abuse’ has a lot of labels attached to it,” said Charlotte easily. “And you have trouble thinking of yourself as a victim, which might not actually be a bad thing. But think of ‘abuse’ as an official word put to terrible treatment of a child or partner, the kind which can have lasting effects without an intervention like this. That’s more in line with what you already expected, it seems. Does that help?”

“... Yeah,” Isla admitted, nodding. “I still feel really grateful I got out. And, you know. That I’m here.” She looked up and smiled tentatively.

This time Charlotte gave her a full, warm smile back. “You are loved now,” said Charlotte. “It’s obvious. And that’s important.”

Isla looked down and took deep calming breaths, fists clenched, her eyes suspiciously full.

-

“We have a couple of things to cover today,” said Charlotte in their next session. “While you were with the Dursleys, what one thing did you really want most?” 

She asked the question leadingly and then sat back, her eyes sharp and thoughtful.

Isla repressed a smile. “I suspect you already know the answer,” she said wryly. “But, well…” She frowned. “It was love,” she said softly. “Even if I wouldn’t admit to it, the thing I wanted most was love - and affection. I didn’t have any connection with anyone - and especially not with any sort of… parental figure. I was never told anything about myself or my past.

“And I wanted… well, I wanted…” She looked away awkwardly, fists clenched in her lap again. “I wanted a family,” she said softly.

“And now you have one.”

“Yes!” Isla looked up quickly. “I mean, granted, I’d still like to know more about my birth parents. But… yes,” she said decisively. “I have a family.”

“And how do you react to this?” Charlotte asked, revealing nothing. “To this having a family?”

“... Not well.” Isla winced, looking down. “I mean, I try to be very good! But there are some problems. I… recognize that.”

She took a deep breath.

“I was very wary at first. Extremely cautious. But then, once I felt more secure… I became super high-sensitive to criticism. Very emotional all the time. And I didn’t tell anybody anything because I was afraid of ruining the moment.”

“A couple of points with that,” said Charlotte. “First, was it really security that made you so sensitive? I say that because security is typically characterized as calm,” she added, when Isla looked confused.

“Well…” Isla looked down, troubled. “If it’s not security… I want to give them as much of me as possible,” she breathed in realization, her eyes widening. “I’m still afraid of losing them. Of losing everyone.”

“Exactly,” said Charlotte. “You have to stop letting those thoughts control your life. You have to tell yourself, whenever you feel grateful, to just feel grateful and let it pass. Don’t cling. Family is forever. When you realize that, you will finally feel true security.

“Second… was it just that you didn’t want to ruin the moment? Is that really why you never talk about your problems?”

“... You think I still don’t trust adults,” Isla realized, her face hard and cautious.

“I think that could be part of it,” said Charlotte sympathetically. “I think you sometimes have trouble even trusting _me.”_

Isla became thoughtful.

“But even the first reason is unhealthy. You’re no longer supposed to be in survival mode, Isla. You don’t have to just ‘get along’ anymore. If you have a problem or a feeling, speak it. Otherwise it will just eat you away from the inside. If you want to argue, then argue. No one will hurt you. No one will spurn you or stop loving you. You have people to turn to now, people who _are_ in your corner.”

Isla closed her eyes as if to stave off a wave of emotion. Her face worked very tightly. She took a deep breath and nodded. “... Okay.”

“Now, I have one more topic to deal with,” said Charlotte. This time she sounded hesitant, and Isla opened her eyes in surprise. Charlotte, she saw with disbelief, looked positively _nervous._

“Okay,” said Isla, puzzled. “Shoot.”

“We know you’ve been emotionally abused,” said Charlotte carefully. “... Have you ever considered emotional abuse on the part of Dudley?”

“Dudley hit me. He never took the time to insult me. He wasn’t smart enough,” said Isla uncomprehendingly.

“That is not what I meant.” Charlotte looked at Isla.

Isla looked at Charlotte.

“You mean to say… that _Dudley_ was abused?” Isla suddenly began laughing incredulously. “Are you kidding me? Dudley had everything, Dudley had -!”

“And did he ever act like an emotionally healthy child?” Charlotte asked expectantly.

Isla paused.

“Think about it, Isla. Is it good treatment to cater to a child’s every punch and every tantrum, to gratify their every whim, never to expect anything from them? To allow them to abuse their own sister? To allow them to watch as their sister is abused in front of them? To teach them that’s okay?”

“Well, no, but -”

“Why is your cousin in juvie right now?”

Isla was dead silent for a few seconds. “... Because of his Mum and Dad.”

“Exactly. And why do you think they treated him that way? Look deeper.”

Isla thought hard, her eyes working. “Because… because they were trying to prove a point to me,” she realized. “Whether they registered it or not… he was a tool to prove a point to me.”

“Yes,” said Charlotte. “Exactly. And he didn’t bear up under his treatment nearly as well as you did under yours, I’m afraid.

“None of this is your fault, Isla. But you need to understand it.”

Isla’s face twisted in disgust and pity. “... I feel sorry for him,” she admitted, thinking once more of his big, red, viciously grinning face.

“That,” said Charlotte quietly, “is, I think, a rational, mature reaction.”

-

Charlotte sat across from Isla again.

“I have one last point to make to you,” she said, watching Isla carefully as always for signs of reaction. “What did your relatives tell you about yourself? How did they make you feel about yourself?”

And so Isla told the story. She talked about the cursory niceness in front of others, but the punishments later. She talked about the keeping her out of sight. They complained about Isla in front of Isla. They never called her by name. They treated her as a feelingless object, a disgusting thing. They told her she deserved nothing, was ungrateful, cost too much to keep around. They purposefully tried to keep her unhappy. They called her a freak. They humiliated her and then laughed at her pain.

They ran the gamut, it seemed.

But finally, Charlotte talked a confused Isla around to the main point. “You used one word to describe how your relatives made you feel in the initial report. One word, all the way back then as a small child with Miss Goldplum, the social worker. Do you remember what it was? Do you remember how all this made you feel?”

“... Unspecial,” said Isla quietly, serious.

“Yes, exactly,” said Charlotte. “And I would like to end this by saying that you are not a freak, Isla. Not even close. In fact, your family, who pretended so hard to be normal - _they_ were the freaks. You are far healthier than I personally believe they will ever be. Maybe I’m not supposed to say that as your therapist, but it’s true.

“And I must admit to something, Isla. I don’t know how to go back and make it so all that never happened. I don’t know how to give you amnesia or make you forget or make you act like all that never affected you. More to the point, I don’t think that would be healthy.

“But know this: I want you to keep your sense of wonder about life. You are very special, Isla, and without even looking I can tell that you have so many spectacular things ahead of you.

“Maybe you don’t believe me now. But I hope one day you can see that.

“Your life is not over. It has just begun.”

Isla nodded, and this time she was secure - calm. And clearly individual. “... Thank you,” she said at last. “Thank you, Charlotte. And just so you know? I don’t want to go back and pretend it all never happened.”

Isla looked up with determination into Charlotte's surprised face.

“I like the person I’ve become.”

Charlotte suppressed a smile. “That is the most important thing,” she admitted.

-

Isla left with her family, out of the office, out the front doors, into the car through the city. They parked in front of the townhouse. She went inside to her puppy Button, who barked and jumped around greeting her. She laughed and said hello back, petting his head.

But Lettie was already waiting at the door. “Come _on,_ Isla!” she said impatiently. “Our friends from school are outside!”

“Coming!”

Isla’s Mum and Dad looked on, smiling, as she grinned and ran out the door and into London city to see her friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is officially the end of pre-Hogwarts.
> 
> Since we're heading into canon, I don't know how fast chapters will come out after this. I might not be able to do one a day. We'll have to see.
> 
> I'm excited to head into the Hogwarts era!


	7. Chapter 7

Minerva McGonagall had a certain quill that was employed by Hogwarts School itself.

The magic of the castle used it to find the exact placement of each suitable eleven year old, right down to the room they slept in. The magic of the castle then used that quill to address all the envelopes of all the incoming first year students. A pre-written Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry acceptance letter was sent to that child.

Minerva kept a pile of all the Muggleborn eleven year olds who knew nothing about magic. Those acceptance letters, she would have to deliver personally and explain as the deputy headmistress. But she didn’t think Isla Potter, who did after all come from relatives who knew about her magical parents, would fall into that category.

So she almost missed Isla’s envelope. But when she did see it, she paused and frowned.

More curious than alarmed, she took the envelope and climbed the floors of Hogwarts Castle to the headmaster’s office entrance. She named the password sweet of the week, the stone gargoyle came to life and sprang aside, and the entrance to the office was revealed. She rode the revolving spiral staircase to Albus Dumbledore’s office door.

She knocked and entered.

“Professor Dumbledore?” she said. “Did Potter’s aunt and uncle move?”

Dumbledore looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “... Not to my knowledge. Why?”

Minerva McGonagall paled visibly and held up the envelope. “Because…” she said unusually softly, stunned, “because if they haven’t moved… Potter no longer lives with them. And all this time… all this time no one bothered to use the Trace on her. We thought all was fine.”

She had never seen Albus Dumbledore’s face turn so stormy and serious so fast - and she’d been friends with him for over a decade.

-

Little old Arabella Figg had been waiting for it and it came. One day, quite without preamble, her fireplace whooshed with glowing green flames and Albus Dumbledore appeared from within them, stepping out unharmed and deadly serious.

“Arabella,” he said solemnly. “We have a problem.” One of her cats meowed and slunk around his ankles, but he didn’t bend down to pet the cat as he usually did. Instead, he looked carefully into Arabella’s eyes. “And judging by your expression,” he murmured, “you know what the problem is already.” Then he frowned. “You are afraid of me. Why?

“Why does Isla Potter live in London?”

Silently, he held up the envelope.

“You just told a story about spending time with her and her aunt and uncle last week. By your account, they all lived here in this Muggle suburb. Not hundreds of miles away in downtown Muggle London.”

Arabella fiddled with her hands, looking anywhere but at Dumbledore.

“The blood wards are gone,” she said softly, and couldn’t bear to look at him to discern why he was so silent. “The Dursley couple were arrested for extensive maltreatment of children years ago. They’re in prison. The children were sent into foster care - to - to different homes.”

She at last looked up tentatively.

“Arabella,” said Dumbledore softly, his face grave, “this is very serious. You have inadvertently put Isla Potter in enormous danger.”

“You didn’t see how they were treating her -!”

“I can guess.” Arabella fell silent, stunned. “I did not like placing her with them, Arabella, _but I didn’t feel I had any other choice.”_ Now his voice was growing cold with fury. “I am sure you meant well. But you have no idea the enormity of what you may have done.

“You will come with me to this address. We will find Isla Potter, and bring her back where she belongs.”

Arabella curled into herself timidly, the last of her courage used up.

-

The Miles family received a knock on the front door one summer afternoon. Primary school had just ended for Isla and many of her friends and it was off to the local public school next year. She was quite excited, and currently chatting about it with her parents. Lettie was off playing on the floor.

At the knock, Isla ran and opened the door smiling - paused and tilted her head.

“Hello,” she said, eyes narrowed suspiciously despite her smile, “... can I help you?”

“You certainly can,” said the man with long silver hair and beard and spectacles wearing a plum suit standing in the doorway before her, “because I knew your birth parents. I have finally found you, Isla Potter.”

There were gasps behind her. Isla’s family had run to stand behind her in the doorway and stare.

Stunned, Isla slowly stepped aside to let the man into the house. Then, “... Mrs Figg?” she added disbelievingly, as her little old babysitter toddled timidly into the room behind him.

The woman ducked her head in shame and - something else. Fear?

The pieces began to come together in Isla’s mind. “... Get out,” she suddenly told the old man furiously, and he looked around in surprise. 

“Isla, what are you -?” Mum began, concerned. “I don’t understand, this is wonderful! Someone who knew your birth parents! Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Mum, don’t you get it?” Isla was now glaring furiously, her face snarling, at the old man, who seemed caught off guard and cautious. “He knows Mrs Figg. Which means he knew where I was all along growing up, and he never came to help. He’s only come now because he’s realized I was taken away. Mrs Figg never bothered to tell him. Am I right?”

She whirled on Mrs Figg.

“I… I kept your leaving a secret from him,” Mrs Figg whispered, looking downward. “Because I knew… something of what those people had done.”

“See? Get out!” Isla yelled at him, waving at the door.

“Isla, if you will just let me explain -”

“Get out!”

_“Isla Potter, you are a witch.”_

There was dead silence in the house for a moment.

“Strange, impossible things used to happen around you during moments of anger and fear,” said the old man intently. “Correct? You never wondered what those were?”

“That’s ridiculous -” Mum began.

“No, Mum,” said Isla in a deadly serious voice, never looking away from the old man. “He’s right.

“Prove it,” she challenged. “Prove you can use this power.” She lifted her chin.

The man took out a long wooden wand and gave it a flick. The front door slammed closed and the doorknob transfigured itself before their very eyes, into a glittering golden animal carving pattern. Isla’s family gasped and fell into stunned silence.

“My name is Albus Dumbledore,” said the man, all business, briskly putting his wand away. “Like you, I was born with incredible energies inside my body, energies which keep me alive and healthy and which I can use to manipulate matter in the world around me. We call this energy ‘magic.’ We call people who can use it witches and wizards. There is a whole secret world full of us - a world that Mrs Figg comes from. A world that your parents also came from, though your mother was a Muggleborn. A witch born into an all Muggle, or all nonmagical, family.

“Isla, I cannot stress this enough. _Arabella Figg did wrong by hiding you from me._ You were placed with your only living blood relatives, the Dursleys, for reasons of magical protection! There is no time to lose! It may not be too late - we can still take you back -”

“No.” Isla backed up, her whole world breaking, every insecurity coming to the surface.

“Isla, I know the prospect may be grim to you,” said Dumbledore, seeming both pained and impatient, “but -”

“NO!” Isla huddled over, clutching at her head. “No! I won’t go back! I won’t leave my new family, _I won’t go back in the dark!”_

“What is wrong with her?” Dumbledore barked, sounding horrified. 

Then Isla felt gentle hands on her shoulders. “Isla, it’s alright,” said her mother’s voice like an anchor, quietly, firmly. Isla looked up just in time to see her Mum shield Isla, placing herself between her daughter and Dumbledore.

“Now you listen here,” said Sarah Miles fiercely, directly into Dumbledore’s surprised face. “I don’t care how powerful you think you are, or how much you know that I don’t! You are going to listen to me, and listen hard.

“Did you ever do anything to help this girl, act like her guardian in any way? Did you ever bother to check up on her yourself, see how she was doing? Did you?!”

“I didn’t want to interfere -”

“Well maybe you should have! Because she was severely emotionally and physically abused! She was beaten up, starved, and locked for weeks at a time in a cupboard!”

It was the angriest Isla had ever heard her mother. A stunned silence met Sarah’s words.

“There is a reason those people are in prison,” Mum snapped. “There is a reason her cousin is in juvenile detention. And we adopted Isla, so she’s ours. You are only bringing her back to her relatives over my dead body.”

“And mine,” Foster added, stepping up beside his wife. Lettie stepped up beside them, glaring at Dumbledore hatefully. Mrs Figg was hiding terrified in a corner.

“We have been trying _for years,”_ Sarah hissed, “to heal Isla Potter from severe psychological wounds _your policies inflicted on her!_ And you don’t just get to come in here, take our daughter away from us, and reverse all that progress! We’re not letting her go. But in order to even _consider_ this, you’d better damn well have a good, _current, present_ threat to her well-being that I don’t somehow know about!”

Tears had come to Dumbledore’s eyes. “... No,” he whispered. “Just old paranoia and a bad gut feeling.” He looked behind them with terrible uncertainty at Isla.

“Please don’t make me go back in the dark,” she whispered tearfully. “Please don’t send me back there.” She was still bent over, clutching her head.

Dumbledore closed his eyes against the tears of shame. “... She can stay with you,” he whispered. “The Dursley couple deserve their remaining two years in prison. There is… other protective magic that can be used if the time ever comes. The Fidelius Charm, for example.

“She can stay.”

Isla nearly collapsed with relief, sobbing. Mum and Dad quickly turned around and hugged her very tightly, Lettie joining in. Isla felt supported - safe.

They at last looked up to find Dumbledore watching them with incredible raw emotion. “Forgive me, but who are you three?” he whispered. “Because you remind me so much of Isla’s biological family. You’re probably the reason the final blood wards fell. And you clearly seem to be good for her.”

“They adopted me,” said Isla shyly, straightening and stepping forward. “This - is my family.” She smiled and waved to the three, as they all stared at Dumbledore distrustfully. Dumbledore just looked at them, lost. “Sarah and Foster Miles are my parents. They’re professors here in London. Lettie is my younger sister, two years behind me. And that’s our dog Button.” Button had come padding out to say hello.

Dumbledore kneeled down and petted the dog slowly, as if still reeling. He looked closely at Isla’s family.

“... Yes,” he said after a moment. “They will do. Ah, and that’s a nice bit of unexpected, pleasant surprise.” He lifted his eyebrows, smiling cheerfully. “Your sister has magic, too! Like your mother was, she is a Muggleborn witch! The perfect environment, I think,” he added curiously in a murmur.

Isla looked around in delight at Lettie, who gasped and sped forward, hugging Isla around the waist. “Both our daughters? Witches?” said Foster in surprise, sounding utterly bewildered. Sarah was smiling fiercely, tears in her eyes.

Isla at last walked up to Mrs Figg. “Thank you, Mrs Figg,” she said shyly, smiling. “I… I always thought you were awful, but… thank you. She was my babysitter,” Isla explained to her confused family.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” said Mrs Figg warmly. “I’m a Squib, born to wizarding parents but with no magic, so it was really the most terribly important thing I could do, take care of you. I only treated you the way I did because your relatives forced my hand. I was assigned to keep watch over you - and I did,” she added stoutly.

“Even from me, it seems, the person who placed her there,” Dumbledore added wryly, amused. “Thank goodness. I can sometimes be too manipulative for my own good; it’s why I’ve never taken the position of Minister in my own world.”

“So - who are you?” Isla asked curiously, turning to him. “And - how did you suddenly find me?”

“Ah!” said Dumbledore brightly. He walked up to Isla, who tensed cautiously. But Dumbledore did nothing dangerous. He said, “I have many titles. I’m on several important councils. I’ve been what you would call a war general. But what I’m most proud of is being a scholar. And for my purposes, that is what is most important for you.

“You see, I run our training school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “You would call it a secondary school, a boarding school. There you will learn magic in an enchanted castle and, like with any boarding school, on all holidays you will be sent back home here - to your family. Your sister will join you in two years.

“We want you back at least during the school year, Isla,” he said, “for training. We want you to become a witch.”

“And you put me with my relatives… because of some complicated blood protection after my biological parents died?”

“Yes.”

“And my biological parents were a witch and wizard?”

“Yes. Your mother’s sister was your Aunt Petunia.”

“What were my parents like? And… do you have any idea why the Dursleys would have treated me the way they did?”

“Your parents, Lily and James Potter, a redhead and a brunet, were a brilliant witch and wizard - your mother a kind and fiery and beautiful but poor Muggleborn, your father a wealthy blueblood old money Pureblood who was very into sports. They were made Head Boy and Girl at Hogwarts together. Your parents had initially hated each other, your father _was_ rather arrogant and mischievous in his youth, but they fell in love during that final year. Got married right out of school, caused a huge scandal because of their difference in status and parentage, and in the end they fought in one of our wars together, side by side. That’s how they died.”

“So… not in a car crash.”

“Oh, good Lord, is what they told you? Well that’s an awful lie, not even realistic.” Dumbledore frowned. “Wizards and witches don’t die in car wrecks. For one thing, we’re a bit harder to kill than that. For another, we don’t even use cars. Strong magic shorts out strong electricity, so we had to use magic to make up for many modern Muggle conveniences.”

“... Please tell me you have indoor plumbing,” said Isla in dread.

Mrs Figg snickered. “Oh, yes, of course,” Dumbledore assured her. Isla and Lettie both relaxed in relief. “As for your relatives… I have my theories.

“Your aunt wrote to me once as a child, asking to be let into Hogwarts. I couldn’t let her join our world - not in the way she wanted. Magic is innate. Either you have it or you don’t, and she didn’t. Your aunt reacted by lashing out at magic itself, at her sister, at anything that reminded her of the world she could not have. She reacted by becoming prejudiced.”

Isla and Lettie looked at each other and shuddered as they tried to imagine what that would be like.

“I think she married a man who hated imagination and magic as much as she did. A very small man, power hungry and terrified by anything he couldn’t control. They then probably inflicted that mindset on their son.

“I am sorry,” he added quietly. “I knew it would not be pleasant, but - and this is not an excusable defense - I did not think they would be openly abusive.”

“... It’s okay,” Isla realized. “Just… please include me in decisions concerning me from now on?”

“... Understood,” said Dumbledore at last, sorrowfully. “It is the least I can do.

“So?”

“What?” Isla stared around herself. Everyone was looking at her eagerly.

“Will you become a witch? Join our world and learn to control your powers at Hogwarts?” said Dumbledore.

Isla smiled. “Of course,” she said fiercely. “Yes.”

“Very well. Then as is standard for all Muggleborn students, someone needs to be your tour guide as you prepare for Hogwarts and your re-entry into the wizarding world. I propose myself!” said Dumbledore brightly. “Forgive the arrogance, but I’m the headmaster and as I'm so high up and knowledgeable I don’t do that sort of thing much myself anymore. This should be a refreshing change of pace!”

Isla and her family looked at each other. “... Of course,” said Isla’s mother, smiling. Dumbledore seemed to relax a bit at this little piece of forgiveness. 

“Then I should briefly take Mrs Figg back home,” said Dumbledore. “It should only take a minute or two. In the meantime, I recommend you take a look at this - your Hogwarts acceptance letter.”

He reached into an inside pocket and took out a parchment envelope, handing it over. As he left with Mrs Figg, Isla supposed to do something magical, Isla took the envelope and drank in this evidence… that she was a witch.

Her family went to look over her shoulder.

-

Miss I. Potter

The Far Left Bedroom

33 Shawning Way

London

England

-

The yellow parchment envelope was heavy and the address was written in emerald green ink. There was no stamp and no return address. Isla turned the envelope over and saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. A Latin insignia encircled the seal.

She slit the envelope open and two pieces of parchment paper fell out. She picked up the first one.

-

Dear Miss Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd add the intervening chapter bridging pre-Hogwarts with Hogwarts now. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with this one. The next chapters may come significantly slower, but I am working, rest assured.


End file.
